


Bent but not broken

by Dragona



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Blowjobs, Casual Sex, Coming Out, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley - Freeform, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Nightmares, Not Canon Compliant, Panic Attacks, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Sex Toys, Slow Burn, Smut, being outed, handjobs, sexual anxiety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2020-09-30 11:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20446235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragona/pseuds/Dragona
Summary: It’s been six years since the Battle of Hogwarts, but Draco still wakes up in cold sweats, haunted by the memories. Something happened to him that night. Something he’s never told anyone. And he's so deeply ashamed of it, sometimes he can barely breathe.Only one person was there to witness it—and Harry Potter is the last person Draco is intent on seeking comfort from. He is quite capable of handling his emotions on his own, thank you very much.Quite frankly, Harry isn't buying it.





	1. Old Wounds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladylupin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladylupin/gifts).

> Hello and welcome! Before diving in, please note that while this fic is primarily a smutty slow burn, it will explore themes pertaining to rape recovery, and may include non-explicit depictions of rape. Please make sure you've read all the tags, as certain themes may be upsetting. While my goal is to keep this non-explicit (in terms of non-con), I will add the "rape" archive warning if I think it's getting too dark. I will likely also add further tags as I go. And don't be afraid to let me know if you think there are any tags I may have missed!
> 
> Also big shout out to Lady Lupin and Painty for their encouragement and support! <3
> 
> Warnings aside, I hope you enjoy! ^_^

**-Part 1-**

_ “Lucius’s boy, eh?” _

_ “Yes! Yes, that’s me. I—I’m not your enemy, please—” _

_ A startled scream ripped from his throat as he was yanked roughly by his hair and dragged through the corridor. He shouted and pleaded, but there was no one around. No one to help him. No one to hear his screams. _

_ “Please don’t—don’t!” _

_ “Shut your mouth, you little brat!” _

_ The classroom door slammed behind them and he was pushed up against a desk. His clothes were pulled out of the way. He fought, but his struggles were feeble. When the sharp, invasive pain sliced through his body, all he could do was sob. His face was wet with tears and his throat hurt from screaming. _

_ A sudden blast echoed around him, red and white flashing across his vision. The pain dulled... _

_ “Malfoy?” _

_ No. No, anyone but him. He looked up and met emerald green eyes, wide and full of pity… _

_ Blood dripped onto the wooden floor and Draco scrambled away. “Don’t! Don’t…” _

_ “Malfoy… I can help.” _

_ “Get away from me, Potter!” _

Draco woke up with a scream stuck in his throat. He sat bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily. His forehead was cold with sweat, and his body still prickled sensitively with the remnants of his nightmare. He heard a faint _ tap tap tap _ against his window and picked up his wand, murmuring a low, “ _ Lumos _.” Light spilled through his bedroom, and the clock on the wall told him it was five in the morning. The quiet tapping came from a windswept tawny owl perched on his windowsill, pecking at the glass.

Draco brushed off the lingering memories of his nightmare—_ pain between his legs, cruel hands pulling at his hair— _and slipped out of bed. He stepped over the pile of dirty laundry on the floor and reached across his desk to open the window, letting in a gust of chilly morning air. The owl tumbled in with a chirp and dropped an envelope in front of him. He scratched her head absently as he turned the letter over. His throat tightened as he recognised Pansy’s neat handwriting across the front. Opening his desk drawer, he tucked it on top of the growing stack of other unopened envelopes.

The scraggly owl seemed miffed at being sent back empty-handed, but she flew off without a fuss. Draco still had scratch marks on his hands from the time Pansy had sent her obnoxious screech owl. He’d refused to leave until Draco had attached a piece of blank parchment to his ankle. Pansy had sent the parchment straight back with the words “you’re a dick” written on it.

Draco pulled on his dressing gown and crept downstairs, using his wand to light the way. The old wooden steps creaked beneath his feet. Two years ago he might have balked at the pure prospect of living in such… modesty. The flat was small, with little more than a loft, a kitchen, and a bathroom. The living room barely squeezed a sofa and a coffee table, much less the roaring fireplace he was accustomed to.

But Draco had grown quite fond of the place. The mess was somewhat uncomfortable—dishes strewn across the coffee table, books and old copies of the _ Daily Prophet _crowding his shelves. Had he the funds, he may have made an effort to hire a house-elf every now and then. But as it was, he was rather short on gold, and of no mind to ask his mother for a loan, eager as she might have been to offer him one. Besides, he’d come to find the clutter rather comforting. It was a stark contrast to the cold emptiness of the manor. And most of all, it was his. 

Amongst the mess of parchment and papers, he picked out the letter his mother had sent him last week.

_ Draco _

_ Please join your father and I for breakfast next Monday. We both miss your company dearly and would like to see you again. _

_ Mother _

Simple and to the point, as Narcissa had always been. It had been a while since Draco had visited the manor. He seldom saw his mother these days. Not since he’d been employed at the ministry and his father released…

He’d considered ignoring the letter entirely, but eventually decided that the pleasure of scorning his father was not worth the cost of hurting his mother. He’d also thought of replying to say he wasn’t coming. After all, he was fairly certain his father did not ‘miss his company dearly’. But that left him with a similar dilemma.

In the end, he’d sent a simple reply.

_ Mother _

_ I will be there at seven o’clock before work. _

_ Draco _

It had taken him almost the entire week to come up with that response, and he’d only sent it yesterday. He could only hope his mother had received it.

After dressing and pulling a fine, emerald green robe over his work clothes, he put on a scarf and gloves and headed out. The grey clouds above were glowing with the red of early sunrise, and only a few Muggles were out. Since moving to London, Draco had quickly decided that flavoured coffee was the only acceptable Muggle invention. He ordered himself a latte at the small café just down the road, with two sugars and a shot of vanilla. It was a quiet Tuesday. Spring wasn’t quite upon them yet, and the air still had a bite to it.

Draco ignored the friendly smile the Muggle coffee-maker shot him, and walked straight back to his flat with his head down. Muggle district or not, the need not to attract attention was a force of habit. He drew his scarf tighter around his neck and warmed his hands on his coffee cup as an icy wind picked up.

Today’s copy of the _ Daily Prophet _was on his doorstep when he got home. Taking a warming sip of coffee, he crouched and picked it up. The front cover made him grimace.

_ Saviour of the wizarding world still at large—dark wizards beware! _

There was an image of Harry Potter in his Auror robes, the flash of a thousand cameras flickering in his glasses. Head Auror Robards was at his side, grinning through his greying moustache with a hand clenched tightly around Potter’s shoulder. Draco scowled, locking his front door behind him and slumping onto the sofa. Against his better judgement, he read on.

_ Soon to be the youngest ever head of magical law enforcement? Potter returns from a two-month investigation in Wales after having successfully apprehended a group of dark wizards, and suspected former loyalists of Lord Voldemort. _

After all these years, that name still made Draco’s chest clench. But it was the image of Potter that was truly jarring. He looked so… grown up. Had it really been that long? He was in the papers all the time, but Draco normally made an effort to avoid him. His jaw was sharper and his shoulders broader, and there were smile lines around his eyes. There was even a shade of stubble across his chin. Draco bit his lip as he read on.

..._ Robards hints at naming Potter his successor when he retires. This comes as a surprise to no one, as the young Auror has continued to excel in his field since starting on the job. Some would say he was born to protect the wizarding world against darkness! _

“Oh, _ please, _ ” Draco sighed, tossing the _ Prophet _aside. Of all the mornings to be hearing about how bloody fantastic Harry Potter was, this was not the one.

** **** **

When Draco arrived at the manor, the tall wrought iron gates swung open in greeting. His mother hadn’t removed his magical signature from the recognition system, then. He wondered what his father had to say about that. 

He walked down the pathway to the house with his hands deep in his pockets. The air was bitterly cold, and grey clouds rolled overhead, casting a dull light over the gardens. The hedgerows on either side of him were looking overgrown and unkempt, old brown leaves littering the ground. Clearly, his father’s budget had shrunk significantly since his release, Draco thought, somewhat smugly.

When he reached the front door, he lifted the heavy brass knocker and tapped it twice. The door opened almost immediately, his mother standing on the other side. She was wearing her finest fur coat, and her light hair fell about her shoulders in neat curls. Her face broke into a relieved smile when she saw him, softening the creases around her forehead. “Draco,” she sighed, hugging him.

“Mother.” He returned her embrace stiffly, clearing his throat when she stepped back.

“Oh darling, have you been eating enough?” she asked, her blue eyes turning sad as she brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. “You look…” She trailed off when he glanced down, leaning away from her touch. “Well, you’d best come in. Your father is waiting for us.”

A tight knot twisted in Draco’s chest as he followed her through the grand foyer and into the dining room. His father was sitting at the head of the mahogany table, his hand resting on his cane at his side. Draco sucked in a silent breath when he saw him. Even though he was two months out of Azkaban, he looked gaunt and hollow, his cheeks thin and his skin sallow. Dark shadows ringed his eyes, which were bloodshot. 

Draco ducked his head in greeting. “Father.”

The icy look his father gave him in return made his blood curdle, but he maintained eye contact. “Draco,” he said at length, his hand flexing on his cane. “Sit.”

Draco took the seat to his right, his mother, the left. A house-elf brought out plates of food—toast and eggs and fresh fruit (more than a step up from what Draco had been eating recently). They ate in silence, light rain pattering against the windows. Draco could feel his mother’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look up, chewing wordlessly on his toast.

“How is your new job at the Ministry, Draco?” she asked, cutting the tension.

“It’s going well,” he said slowly. “For the most part.” The work was bearable enough—his co-workers, not so much.

“And what exactly is it you do over there that’s so important?” his father asked coldly. Draco inhaled and his mother pursed her lips.

“I work with cursed objects and artefacts,” Draco replied calmly. “Mostly ones that have fallen into Muggle hands. I’m part of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.” His father scoffed, shaking his head as he cut into his eggs. Draco placed his knife and fork on his plate, folding his hands in his lap. “Do you disapprove, father?”

“Draco,” his mother said quietly, giving him a warning look. Draco swallowed and looked at his plate with a scowl. Silence fell again, though his father’s mouth was curled in distaste. After the house-elf had returned to clear away their dishes, Lucius turned his stare on Draco once again.

“Though you seem intent on scorning our family, your mother and I have a proposal for you.”

“Come back to the manor, Draco,” his mother said, a note of desperation in her tone. “Come live with us again.” She smiled, her expression tender and earnest. Draco dropped his gaze, unable to meet her eye.

“Mother, I’m not—”

“We let you go to allow you to learn a little self-sufficiency,” his father said. “But it’s time you come back. It is your duty as the Malfoy heir.” His tone was clipped, leaving little room for argument.

Draco’s jaw trembled as he looked at him. “You didn’t _ let _me go,” he said quietly. “I left. On my own.”

Lucius’s expression twisted bitterly. “Clearly we made a mistake,” he spat. “You’ve grown arrogant and entitled—and no doubt those Muggle-lovers that run the Ministry have had an impact on you too.” Narcissa had her head bowed, her red lips pressed tightly together.

Draco swallowed thickly, clinging to his left forearm under the table. His skin seemed to prickle there, a cold reminder of his family’s mistakes. “I’m not coming back father,” he said. “I’m—I’m happy.” An overstatement, but not one he was willing to admit to in front of his parents.

“You are the Malfoy heir,” his father hissed, letting his knife and fork clatter to his plate. “Whatever that may mean to you now. You have a duty to your family. To your ancestors. To run around serving a Muggle-worshipping government is the highest form of disrespect, and you should be ashamed to—”

“Lucius,” Narcissa said sharply, and he shut his mouth, lifting his chin. “Draco will return in his own time.” She looked at him, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Won’t you, dear?”

Draco couldn’t look at her. He could feel the burn of frustrated tears in his eyes. “Please excuse me,” he said, standing up abruptly. “I have work.” He gave his mother a curt nod. “Thank you for inviting me to breakfast, mother.” Without acknowledging his father, he turned swiftly and left, apparating back to the London portkey once he’d made it outside.

When he got home, the _ Daily Prophet _ was still lying open on the sofa, Potter’s idiotic face grinning back at him. Gritting his teeth, Draco tore the page out and crumpled it. Pointing his wand at it, he muttered, “ _ Incendio _,” then watched the flames eat away the image. Seeing Potter’s face burning quelled the unpleasant ache in his chest. Somewhat.


	2. The more things change, the more they stay the same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's welcome home is... lukewarm.

Harry’s breath caught the moment he glimpsed the shockingly familiar silver-blonde head of hair across the atrium. Malfoy stepped into the lift next to him, and his eyes met Harry’s only briefly before he looked away. Harry opened his mouth—out of shock or the need to say something—but found himself closing it when his mind went blank. Malfoy did not so much as glance at him.

The lift was crowded, memos fluttering overhead and people squirming to make space for each other. Harry’s walking cane wobbled in his hand as people bumped him, and he shifted closer to Malfoy to make room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy lifting his chin, his eyes flickering aside briefly. He was standing so close, Harry could smell him—coffee, of all things, and apples.

It was the first time he’d seen him since the trials. The sight of him made Harry’s gut clench with a sickening memory. _Pained whimpering… blood dripping onto the classroom floor..._

Harry shook off the thought with a shudder. He thought of that night often, though who didn’t, he supposed. The Battle of Hogwarts was a permanent brand in most people’s minds. But for differing reasons, in many cases. For Malfoy…

Harry found it difficult even to attempt eye contact with him—so he focused on his hair instead. It had grown out a little, Harry noticed, and he kept pushing strands of it out of his face. He did it unconsciously every few seconds, and it was somewhat mesmerising to watch his slender hands move.

The lift lurched to a halt on level six, and Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped inside, followed by a flurry of memos. He squeezed in next to Harry, beaming when he saw him. “Harry!”

“Minister,” Harry said, clearing his throat.

“Wales nice this time of year?”

“Er, yes. Not bad. Didn’t have many opportunities for sightseeing, though.”

“Ah, of course, of course. I suppose you would have been rather preoccupied. Mission went well, I heard?” Harry nodded. “Good, good. Hope it wasn’t too rough? Heard you took a bit of a nasty hit.” He nodded at Harry’s cane.

“Leg’s still on the mend, but uh, should be in good shape in a week or two.”

“Ah, I see. Well, I bet you’ll be itching for a little desk duty after two months away, eh?”

_Not really, _Harry thought miserably. The idea of being confined to his office for the next few weeks was not appealing. But he gave Shacklebolt a faint smile and a nod. The lift slammed to a stop again, and the voice announced they were at the Department of International Magical Cooperation. “This is me,” Shacklebolt said, following the bustle of other witches and wizards who climbed off. He turned to give Harry one final smile. “Glad to have you back.” His eyes raked over Malfoy before the doors closed.

And just like that, Harry and Malfoy were alone. Memos fluttered noisily overhead, and the lift hummed and screeched, but Harry could still hear Malfoy’s breathing. It occurred to him that he hadn’t bothered to move away and occupy the remaining space in the lift, their shoulders a breath apart. Harry could still smell the coffee.

He couldn’t help but steal a glance at him, searching for a hint of the pain he remembered. There were lines of exhaustion on his face, and a familiar scowl. The hollowness of his cheeks was too reminiscent of the Malfoy Harry remembered from sixth year. His jaw was set and his lips pressed firmly together.

Harry had heard rumours about his father’s release from Azkaban. It had been quite premature, and the Malfoy name was once again losing what little sway it still possessed. Harry had little doubt money had played a role in Lucius’s early release. But there was some speculation that he still possessed a proclivity for the Dark Arts… along with his wife and son. Looking at Malfoy now, he didn’t strike Harry as much of a Death Eater. He was too… fair. Almost gentle, if such a word could be used to describe Draco Malfoy.

The lift stopped at the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes and Malfoy climbed out. His eye met Harry’s for the briefest of moments, and Harry almost said something. He wanted to say something. He _should _say something. After all, how long had it been? Five years? Almost six? Harry still remembered the trials. He was certain Malfoy did too. He would never forget what it was like to stand in front of the Wizengamot.

But that wasn’t the only reason he needed to say something. They’d never spoken about what happened at the Battle of Hogwarts. Never spoken about what Harry had seen. About what had happened to Malfoy…

Harry opened his mouth but the doors were already squealing shut. He closed it again, gulping back a sudden surge of guilt. Did Malfoy still think about it? Of course he did. Harry himself could still remember it in vivid detail, and he hadn’t been the one who—

His chest tightened and he shut his eyes. Perhaps it would be best to say nothing. He and Malfoy weren’t friends—hardly acquaintances. Harry would not be the first person he’d want to spill his thoughts to.

But no one else knew what Harry knew.

Harry banished all thoughts of Draco Malfoy when he reached level two. As soon as he limped out of the lift, he was greeted by the smell of ink and parchment—as well as a loud shout. A familiar lanky redhead came bustling across the room, weaving his way between desks and spinning jinxes. “Coming through! Oi, out of the way you lot!”

Harry grinned sheepishly as a hundred sets of eyes turned his way. “Ron.”

Ron slapped him on the back. “All right, Harry? Good to have you back, mate.” He glanced down at the cane in his hand. “Rough one?”

“Caught a bit of a nasty curse on our last raid,” Harry said, grimacing as he limped towards his office. He ducked as a memo whizzed over his head. “Reckon it’s gonna be desk duty for the next few weeks.”

“So… how’d it go?” Ron murmured, matching Harry’s slower pace to walk alongside him. “The case I mean.” In the middle of the room, two witches were frantically trying to stomp out a burst of sparks. They looked up distractedly when Harry and Ron passed them. A few others were staring rather blatantly as well.

“Did we get a bunch of new recruits or something?” Harry whispered, leaning in. “Everyone’s staring.”

Ron glanced around and shrugged. “Well you’ve been gone a while. And I mean… everyone kind of wants to know what happened. I heard Dolohov was—”

“Potter. Weasley.” They both turned to see Robards walking towards them, his dark eyes narrowed. “I hope you aren’t discussing confidential case details,” he said to Harry.

“No, Head Auror,” Harry replied stiffly. “We weren’t.”

“Good. Because that would be a breach of protocol, as I’m sure you know.” Harry caught Ron rolling his eyes, but he kept his mouth shut. Robards’ calculating gaze was fixed on him, and he scowled at his feet. “How is that leg injury?”

“Holding up.”

Robards nodded, but he looked dubious. “See that you don’t overwork yourself. At the very least, it’ll give you time to catch up on your paperwork.”

Harry scowled. Not even a two-month mission catching former Death Eaters could earn him a day off. “Right. Thanks.”

“And Weasley, see that you follow up on those complaints up in Chelsea.”

Ron’s smile was so forced, it almost looked painful. “Yeah. In a minute,” he said, guiding Harry away by the elbow. Harry stumbled to keep up with him, his cane clicking against the wooden floor. When Ron opened the door to his office, Harry grimaced at the hefty stack of paperwork on his desk. “Cheerful bloke Robards,” Ron said sardonically.

“Well I wasn’t exactly expecting a welcome back party. Guess I’d better get started on all this,” Harry said gloomily. He glared when Ron sat on the corner of his desk, knocking over the stack. “Not enough paperwork of your own, I take it?”

“Aw, come on mate,” Ron said, shuffling through Harry’s collection of chocolate frog cards. “I haven’t seen you in months. At least tell me how it was.”

Harry eyed the door. A man carrying a stack of books slowed down outside Harry’s office, his gaze flicking up at them. Sighing, Harry flicked his wand and the door slammed shut, blocking out the chatter and nosy stares from outside. “You know, same old,” he said, his leg aching as he eased himself into his chair. “Much less impressive than the Prophet is making it out to be.”

“Well I figured that much,” Ron said, picking out his own chocolate frog card from the set. “But I mean… they haven’t told us a whole lot.” He lowered his voice, despite the closed door. “I heard a couple got away.”

Harry grimaced and nodded. “We got Dolohov, at last. But Rowle escaped. He’s one of the last Death Eaters we know about. And a couple of Greyback’s old pack. They had Muggle hostages—we got them all out without any casualties,” he added at the look of horror on Ron’s face. “But it gave the others time to run.”

Ron scowled. “Bugger. They’ll be in Norway or Merlin knows where by now. Any leads?”

“Nothing concrete, but they’ll resurface again. We found a couple of dark artefacts they were hanging on to. We reckon they’ll be coming back for them. Might help us track them down.”

“Let’s hope. Maybe they’ll let me on the taskforce this time,” Ron said, grinning.

“It gets more excitement than it deserves,” Harry said, stifling a yawn. “I’m just glad I get to sleep in a bed again. I was getting kind of tired of the ground.”

“Oh, come off it. Must be _so _hard getting sent on all the coolest missions and knowing you’re going to replace Robards as Head Auror in a couple of years.” Harry ducked his head, muttering a non-committal _hmph._ Thankfully, Ron didn’t seem to notice, already bouncing energetically on the corner of Harry’s desk. “Oh! Have you spoken to Hermione by the way?”

“She sent me an owl when I got in last night to say hi, but otherwise no. Is something up?” Ron was clearly struggling to contain whatever news he was about to divulge, grinning hard and wringing his hands in his lap. “What is it?” Harry narrowed his eyes. “Let me guess… she’s pregnant.”

Ron’s grin turned to horror. “What—Merlin no! We’re definitely not ready for all that. Don’t think kids would work out with both our careers right now, you know? And I mean, we’ve barely even been, uh—”

“Ron?”

“Right, right! Well, I’m not really meant to say. I think she wanted to tell you herself, but—Shacklebolt asked her to be his second!”

“Shit, you’re joking!” 

“I am bloody not! He told her a couple of days ago.”

Harry laughed, slapping Ron on the back. “That’s—that’s bloody fantastic. So you reckon he’s getting ready to—?”

Ron nodded. “He figures he’s gonna retire in the next ten years or some. And I mean, you couldn’t find anyone better to succeed him…”

“Not a chance. And if you did, Hermione would find a way to one-up them.”

Ron beamed. “So how about that, eh? Hermione’s gonna be Minister. You’re gonna be Head Auror…”

“Well, we don’t know that yet.”

“Er, yeah we do! Come on mate, you think there’s anyone better? Your name’s basically on the plaque.”

Harry’s mouth twisted and he hummed, suddenly feeling a lot less excited. “Yeah… well, uh, how about we all head down for drinks tonight at the Cauldron? To celebrate!”

Ron’s smile faded. “Aw mate, I wish I could, but I’m working the double.” Harry tried not to slump. “But you and Hermione go, I’ll catch you at the next one. You should see her. But fair warning, she probably won’t shut up about the history of ministers and their policies. Just have a couple of drinks and you’ll be able to tune it out.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks Ron.” He glanced at the door, as if afraid someone might burst through it, then leaned in. “You’ll never guess who I saw in the lift this morning.”

Ron lifted a ginger eyebrow. “The Weird Sisters? Heard they might be getting back together...”

Harry blinked. “What? No—Draco Malfoy!” He frowned. “You don’t look surprised.”

“Yeah, well he’s been working here the past couple of months, hasn’t he? Started just after you left actually. Think he’s in dark objects or something.” Ron smirked. “Fitting, huh?”

“He started two months ago and you didn’t tell me?”

Ron snorted. “Well you weren’t exactly you receiving owls! Why do you care where he’s working anyway?”

Harry shrugged and looked down, tapping his quill against his desk. “I dunno. I just find the idea of him working here a bit…”

“Weird? I know.”

Harry grimaced. “I haven’t said a word to him since the trials.”

“Me neither—or any of them really. You know I ran into Parkinson the other day? She was writing an article for the Prophet about Gin’s Quidditch team. Never wished we weren’t related more in my life. Ginny wouldn’t talk to her so she wouldn’t leave me alone! Kept asking if I thought all women Quidditch teams were empowering or demeaning. As if I know!” He shuddered. “And I swear, every time Malfoy gets in the lift with me, I can feel my blood temperature dropping.”

Harry chewed his tongue. “He… didn’t look good.”

Ron lifted a brow. “You reckon?”

“Well I mean—he looked _fine._” Harry coughed into his hand. “Not bad. Not bad looking, er, just—” He swallowed. “Just… unhealthy.”

Ron gave him a strange look, then shook his head. “I reckon it’s ‘cause of his dad getting out. I’d move out of home too if my Death Eater father bribed his way out of Azkaban. Heard Lucius had a bit of a go at him, actually. They don’t really get along anymore.”

“Wait, he moved out of the manor?”

Ron shrugged. “Yeah, last I heard, he was living somewhere in London.”

“Huh.” The thought of Malfoy living alone stirred some very strange feelings in Harry’s stomach. It was an odd picture—Draco Malfoy doing his own laundry and cooking his own meals. Sleeping alone in an empty house... “Well. Good for him, I guess.”

Ron hopped off his desk. “Yeah. Anyway, I’d better go. Need to follow up with those witnesses.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “Probably another noise complaint or some rubbish. Chat later?”

“Yeah, all right,” Harry said, trying not to sound disappointed. He hadn’t seen Ron in months, and the last thing on his mind was paperwork. Once Ron had left, he wet his quill with ink and began filling out old reports. But he couldn’t focus. An uncomfortable memory stirred within him. _Pale blonde hair. A quivering heap against the desk. A silent whimper when Harry tried to reach out. Blood, trickling down Malfoy’s legs…_

********

“... Oh, you should honestly read about all Lufkin did when she was in office, Harry. She really was a rather innovative woman—and for a witch of her time, she was very progressive!” Hermione hiccoughed, stumbling over a crack in the pavement. “Oh!” She caught Harry’s arm, giggling. “I dare say I’ve had one too many.” She glanced down and her brown eyes went wide. “Oh goodness, I haven’t hurt your leg, have I?”

“Nope,” Harry said through gritted teeth, suppressing a grunt as he leaned his weight on his bad leg. “Quite all right.” For a week night, it was busy out. Muggles flocked the streets in varying levels of intoxication, and heavy music rumbled from within the clubs they passed. Shivering, Harry drew his scarf tighter around his neck. The icy weather wasn’t doing his leg any favours either.

“Here, lean on me,” Hermione said, looping her arm more firmly around his. “You don’t want to go making your leg worse.”

He smiled at her. “I’m really happy for you, Hermione. I think this’ll be great—you’ll be great.”

She beamed, her cheeks turning pink under the dull street lamp. “I do hope so. At the very least, I should finally be able to get Shacklebolt to look at some of my suggestions for House-Elf law reforms.”

They crossed the road at a set of traffic lights, ignoring the long hoot a taxi gave them as Harry limped slowly over the crossing. “Ron seemed pretty excited about it all, too,” Harry said. His stomach grumbled as they passed a fish and chip shop. He almost wanted to suggest skipping the Cauldron for tonight. He’d already had a good share of whiskey at the Muggle pub they’d been to, and his leg was starting to ache.

Hermione blinked, her eyebrows going up. “He did?”

“Yeah.” Harry frowned. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

Hermione looked away, tucking her hair behind her ear. “It’s just, when I told him he seemed a little… oh, it’s nothing.” When Harry put a hand on her shoulder, she shook it off. “Really, Harry, it’s not worth mentioning. Why don’t you tell me about your trip? I’ve done enough prattling for tonight.”

Harry hesitated before choosing to ignore her obvious change of subject. “It wasn’t bad. Pretty dull, honestly. A lot of waiting around.”

“But you got Dolohov at last, I heard?”

“Yeah. He got my leg though,” he said, tapping it with his cane.

“I suppose they’ll want you to testify at his trial.”

“Yeah,” Harry said bitterly. “Should be fun.” The post-war trials were still painfully ingrained in his mind, and he didn’t much fancy the idea of repeating them. His brain conjured the image of Malfoy, standing in front of the Wizengamot. He’d looked frightfully pale and fragile that day, like the smallest gust of wind might shatter him. And his mother, her jaw tight and her head held high. Harry had testified for both of them. He’d been a little less sympathetic when speaking at Lucius’s trial.

He was tempted to breach the topic with Hermione. Being so deeply involved in the legal matters of the Ministry, she might have a little more insight into Lucius Malfoy’s early release. But at that moment, she clutched Harry’s arm, pointing ahead. “Look! It’s Seamus and Dean. I thought I heard them saying they’d be out tonight.” The two other men were standing outside a Muggle club, leaning heavily against each other and laughing raucously. The heavy-set bouncers were watching them with tight lips.

Dean looked up and waved when he noticed Harry and Hermione. “Well, well, well, look who’s here,” he said as they approached. He swayed slightly on the spot. “You two fancy a drink at the Cauldron?”

“We were just headed there,” Hermione said. She eyed the pink neon lights of the sign above their heads. “Um… Delilah’s Darlings?” The strong scent of perfume wafted from inside the club, accompanied by the heavy thump of music. Seamus ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting between the door and Hermione.

“Erm, we were just passing by, and—” He looked at Harry and cleared his throat. “Blimey, Harry! What happened to your leg?”

“Nothing. Just, er, Auror stuff,” Harry replied as Hermione tutted. He eyed the door of the club as a man wearing skin tight red shorts and heels walked in. He caught Harry’s eye and winked, and Harry quickly tore his gaze away. “Er, so… Cauldron?”

They all agreed that walking to Diagon Alley would be wiser than trying to apparate. Harry was beginning to wish he’d stayed sober. Apparating would have been a lot kinder to his leg.

The Leaky Cauldron was buzzing when they arrived. Harry kept a hold of Hermione’s arm, limping in behind Dean and Seamus. “Make way for the next Minister for Magic!” Seamus bellowed, patting Hermione on the back, and Harry’s hopes for a quick drink and a quiet night were thoroughly dashed.

As they tried to squeeze their way through the small gathered crowd, who were offering their congratulations and shaking the hand of a very ruffled looking Hermione, Harry’s eyes drifted to a quieter corner of the pub. His heart leapt for the second time that day when he caught sight of Draco Malfoy’s familiar silver-blonde hair.

He was sitting alone, a half-empty glass of wine in his hand. Even from this distance, Harry could see the tired lines of his face, emphasised further by the dull candlelight. When his eyes flickered up and met Harry’s, his expression turned cold.


	3. Inescapable Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has difficulty living down his history, in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warnings:** Sexual anxiety/panic and brief, non-explicit flashback to sexual assault

Draco ignored the sour looks that came his way when he stepped out of the lift. He kept his head down and walked straight to his desk, neither offering nor receiving so much as a nod from the other workers in his department. Sitting down, he took his inkwell and quill out of his satchel and began on today’s stack of paperwork.

“Murdered any Muggle-borns today, Malfoy?”

Draco exhaled, pressing his quill against the parchment a little harder than necessary. Zacharias Smith sat at the desk across from him, his yellow hair neatly gelled back. He’d been a Hufflepuff in Draco’s year at Hogwarts, and took great pleasure in taunting Draco. Most days, Draco would ignore him, but on this particular morning, he found himself saying, “Not yet, but it’s barely nine o’clock.” He looked up at Smith, smiling pleasantly. On Smith’s right, Finch-Fletchley was shooting him daggers.

Smith, on the other hand, seemed amused. “Nah, you know what? I don’t think you have the guts to murder anyone. You’re too much of a coward.”

“Interesting how your definition of bravery involves the propensity for murder.”

Smith’s mouth twisted. “You’d just hide behind your scumbag father’s back and let him to it for you, isn’t that right?”

Draco’s fist tightened around his quill and he swallowed. He was being goaded and he knew it. It was the same story every day. Only, he’d never been very good at holding his tongue. “What’s the matter, Smith? Jealous that my father isn’t rotting in St. Mungo’s like a potted mandrake? You should wipe that vacant look off your face or they might find you a chamber next to him.”

Smith’s expression flared with rage and he stood up, pulling out his wand. “You fucking—”

“Come on, mate, just leave it alone,” Finch-Fletchley muttered, tugging on Smith’s sleeve. He cast a nervous look at Draco. “It’s not worth it.” Being feared did have its benefits sometimes, Draco mused, as Smith sat back down.

Smith’s hand trembled around his wand, his teeth gritted as he stared at Draco, who merely regarded him coolly. Smith’s father had been in St. Mungo’s for a few months, owing to a fairly nasty curse he’d taken during a break in. Draco hadn’t pried—until Smith had taken it upon himself to make Draco’s life utter misery at work. Now, it was a sore spot that was rather fun to poke at when Smith wouldn’t shut up. 

“One of these days, you’re going to end up in Azkaban, Malfoy,” Smith spat. “You and your piece of shit father.”

“Until then, I’ll be right here, making your life misery, I assume,” Draco said, his focus already back on his report. Smith muttered something, but Draco wasn’t listening anymore. It wasn’t the drone of paperwork that was on his mind, though.

Had he known Potter would be in that particular lift when he’d walked into the atrium, he would have made a bee-line for the opposite end of the lobby. As it was, he had only noticed Potter’s rat’s nest of black hair and obnoxious glasses when his foot was through the door. He’d still considered turning around.

It was jarring seeing Potter in person. It didn’t compare to the heavily groomed images of him that always plastered the _Daily Prophet_. He wasn’t quite as put-together as he was in photographs. His stubble was thicker, and the lines of his face were harsher, more defined. And until today, it had never struck Draco how tall he was, even now, leaning on his walking cane. Hadn’t he always been something of a weed? When had he gotten so… fit_._

It was his eyes, though, that had stirred Draco. Perhaps it was that he’d seen them so many times in his nightmares of late. Or perhaps it was that they were just so _green, _piercing right through him. Like he remembered.

_A rough hand gripping at Draco’s hair. A cold laugh echoing behind him. And Potter’s green eyes, full of pity as he looked down at him._

Draco startled as the point of his quill tore the parchment. He swallowed and dropped it, his hand trembling violently. Inhaling, he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a box of Soothing Mints. The moment he popped one into his mouth, a cool sense of calm spilled over him. It was somewhat unsettling—beneath the false exterior, he could still feel his emotions battling each other. But it was better than breaking down in a full-blown panic attack in the middle of the office. _Damn Potter to the bloodiest circle of hell. _He was in Draco’s head. And not for the first time.

“Um—Mr. Malfoy?” Draco flinched as the high-pitched voice cut through his subconscious. He looked up sharply to find a small witch with dirty blonde hair, rocking back and forth on her feet. Her eyes darted anxiously away from him.

“Yes?” Draco asked irritably.

“A-Ambrose, Mr. Malfoy—my name, that is. Matilda Ambrose. I, erm—Miss Thornwood sent me—”

“Deputy Thornwood,” Draco corrected, looking back at his paperwork. He caught sight of Smith across from him, a sour expression on his face.

“R-right! Sorry, I—I just started. Deputy Thornwood. I, er, well she—” The girl squirmed and Draco sighed.

“What did she want?” he asked impatiently.

“She just wanted me to—to give you this.” The girl thrust a sleek black box into Draco’s hands. “It’s, er, from the Wales artefacts. Collected by the Aurors. She asked if you could take a look—i-in the examining room, of course.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her and she squirmed. “All right,” he said at length, taking the box from her. As he reached for it, his left sleeve slipped above his wrist, revealing just a sliver of the fading ink on his skin. Ambrose’s eyes bulged as she stared at it, and Draco quickly tugged his sleeve down. “Go on then, run along,” he snapped, getting up. She blinked at him, then quickly hurried off. Draco fidgeted with his sleeve, his skin prickling uncomfortably.

“Don’t tell me you’re sweet on the new girl, Malfoy,” Smith said snidely, his mouth twitching at the corner. Draco ignored him and carried the box across the room.

For most people, being quarantined to the examining room was a punishment, but Draco had always appreciated the isolation. The rooms were heavily warded to prevent any curses from escaping. At least in here, he wouldn’t be disturbed by the incessant sound of Smith’s voice.

The room was dark, the black walls and thick carpet cushioned by magic. Draco sat down in the old leather seat and placed the box carefully on the working table. He pulled on a pair of leather gloves before opening it.

There was a golden locket inside the box, the chain rusted. Draco took out his wand and levitated it out of the box. It was old and unassuming, but Draco could feel… something. A hum of magic, very faint. He couldn’t tell yet whether it was hostile or not.

He began with a series of simple spells. _Alohamora _did nothing, but he’d expected that. He tried a few other charms too, but the locket sat stubbornly on the table. He moved onto more aggressive spells—hexes and jinxes, but nothing harsh enough to damage the locket. The last thing he wanted was a rogue curse exploding in his face. He even tried opening it with physical force, but unsurprisingly, it didn’t work.

By the end of the day, he’d made little progress. He left the office later than normal, a dull headache throbbing at his temples. The atrium was still buzzing with night shift workers filing in, and people catching up after work. Draco weaved through them without attracting much notice. It was easier to disappear in a crowd.

Someone tapped his shoulder. “Draco Malfoy?”

Or perhaps it wasn’t. Draco turned slowly, a scathing comment on the tip of his tongue. A small boy with mousy brown hair was staring up at him, wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked. He was clutching a large camera, and Draco’s stomach turned. “Yes?” he said shortly.

“D-Dennis Creevey!” the boy squeaked. “Daily Prophet. I—I was just wondering if—”

“No,” Draco said, turning away. To his annoyance, the boy scurried after him. His shoes—Muggle, by the looks of the loose white laces—pattered noisily against the black tiles of the atrium.

“I just wanted to know if you had anything to comment about your father!”

“I don’t,” Draco responded coldly, walking swiftly onward. Creevey sped up to a jog.

“Is it true you moved out of home when he was released?” he asked persistently.

“No comment.”

“Is that because of the rumours about you? Does your father disapprove?” Draco came to an abrupt stop, his fist curling around his wand instinctively. He inhaled sharply, reaching for his composure. “The stuff people say about you,” Creevey pressed. “And… and other men—”

Draco spun and gripped the boy by the collar, pointing his wand at his throat. “_Don’t _publish that,” he hissed.

The boy’s eyes were wide as marbles. “I—I wasn’t going to,” he said in a tiny voice. Draco’s wand was trembling in his grasp. People were slowing down around them, staring and muttering. He let his wand drop.

“What I do in my private life is no one’s concern but my own,” he said, still holding onto Creevey’s collar. “Not yours—and certainly not my father’s.”

“Oi! Everything all right over here?” Draco looked up and sighed. Weasley was pushing through the evening bustle, moving in their direction with pointed determination. His stormy gaze was set on Draco.

“Perfectly rosy, Weasley,” he drawled, stepping back and putting his wand away.

“Yeah? ‘Cause that’s not what it looks like from here.” Weasley positioned himself between Draco and Creevey, his hand poised over his wand. “All right there, Dennis?” he asked without looking away from Draco.

“Quite all right!” the boy said, his eyes darting eagerly between the other men. Likely plotting his next piece, Draco thought wearily.

“Got something to say, Malfoy?” Weasley asked coldly.

Draco sighed and with a pleasant smile, he tipped his head. “Nothing your little mind will have the capacity to comprehend, I’m sure. Goodnight, _Auror _Weasley.” Without waiting for a response, he turned around and pushed his way toward the Floo chamber.

********

Draco tended to avoid the Leaky Cauldron, given its popularity. Too many familiar faces (and too many unfamiliar faces that still seemed to have decided they detested him). But not much else was open on a Monday, and tonight, Draco was in desperate need of a drink. He planned to dip in, have that drink, then dip right back out. After ordering a glass of white wine, he found a quiet table tucked into the corner of the room. He almost considered snuffing out the candle on his table, just for the added privacy, but dismissed the thought. He wasn’t _that _excessive.

Barely five minutes after he’d sat down, the front doors burst open and Finnigan and Thomas waltzed in, followed closely by Granger—and Potter, naturally, who was leaning heavily on his cane, limping. By the looks of things, the four of them had already had a drink or two. A few of the other patrons looked up as they entered, grins breaking out on their faces. “Make way for the next Minister for Magic!” Finnigan chanted, slapping Granger on the back.

Granger ducked her head, her cheeks glowing, but she wasn’t hiding her smile very well. Draco glowered at his table, his fist tightening around his wine glass. When he looked up again, Potter’s eyes were on him. His heart pulsed briefly, before he scowled and looked away. That was his cue to leave. He gulped down the remainder of his drink and got up. 

A particularly noisy crowd had gathered around Potter and Granger, all offering their congratulations—or free rounds. How fucking generous. Finnigan and Thomas were still shouting, slapping Granger on the back and cheering her name. Draco massaged his temples, his head throbbing.

He pointedly ignored the ex-Gryffindor parade and tried to squeeze his way through the clamour, aiming for the door. It was starting to feel stuffy. Someone grabbed his arm and he recoiled, trying to wrench it away. “I beg your pardon, who the—” His heart froze in his chest when he came face-to-face with Potter.

His eyes were slightly unfocused behind his glasses, bright green even in the dingy lighting of the Cauldron. A lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, his jaw flexing. “Malfoy—hi.”

Draco composed himself and nodded stiffly. “Potter.” An uncertain silence hung between them. Draco eyed Potter’s friends, who were watching him with surly expressions. “I should, um—”

“You look good.” Potter cleared his throat, his smile becoming strained. His hand was still on Draco’s arm, as if he was afraid Draco might bolt. Frankly, Draco probably would have if Potter wasn’t holding him there. He could feel the eyes of the crowd on the two of them. His insides squirmed.

“Do I?” His voice emerged almost panicked. Would it be too low a blow to kick Potter’s cane out and flee?

“Yeah—well, you know. Your hair’s different. And you’re—er—you… have you been well?” Potter’s smile turned to a grimace, his cheeks flushed.

“Well enough, I suppose.”

Potter’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Would you um…?” He threw his thumb over his shoulder at the bar. “We’re celebrating Hermione’s promotion. You could—”

“I should get going,” Draco interrupted, seizing the escape opportunity. Potter’s friends didn’t seem as willing to extend the invitation. Something almost like disappointment flickered across Potter’s face—almost.

“Oh, all right. See you at work?”

“I assume so.” Potter finally let go of his arm and Draco tugged his sleeve down instinctively. He offered Granger a polite nod, and said, “Congratulations on the promotion.” She smiled faintly. Draco glanced at Finnigan and Thomas, who were regarding him with tight-lipped frowns, before walking away. Murmurs broke out behind him but he didn’t hesitate to listen. The crowd parted for him and he was more than glad when he made it into the crisp night air of the street.

He walked home with his shoulders hunched and his head bowed. Sometimes people recognised him—more so since his father was released. And it was never pleasant when he was recognised. He was always grateful when he made it to the Muggle part of town. It was quieter here. No owls swooping past, or drunk idiots practicing magic tricks in the middle of the street. Where the only stares he got were directed at his attire—and honestly, he’d been getting better at dressing like a Muggle. He even owned a pair of sneakers now. He thought of Potter at the pub, how easily he’d drunk in the attention. Draco didn’t even feel petty resenting him for it.

The clock on the wall read eight-thirty when he walked through his front door, but he was more than ready to call it a night. He jumped when something banged against the kitchen window. A large owl stood up, shaking its feathers. It was carrying a thick parcel. Draco opened the window and it dropped the parcel on the counter. He stared at it, briefly perplexed, before realising what it was. He felt his cheeks growing warm, and hurriedly dropped two galleons in the owl’s pouch. Shutting the window after it, he hurried upstairs to open the parcel.

He peeled away the packaging to reveal a plain black box. He opened it and his skin tingled with nervous anticipation. The toy was sleek and black. He’d ordered the smallest size, but it still felt dauntingly large in his hands. He ran his finger over the smooth surface, trying to quell the bubbling anxiety in his stomach.

He took a bath, thoroughly lathering his hair with apple shampoo, before climbing into bed with the toy in hand. He wondered if he was being too ambitious. He’d barely been able to handle his own fingers up until now. Was the toy too much? He could already feel that familiar nauseating sensation pooling in the depths of his stomach. The thought of something going in… inside him. Like that. It brought horrific memories rushing to the surface. Memories he worked so hard to keep suppressed.

Was this even worth the pain? Did he even want this? _Should _he want this? There was a part of him that still felt a sense of crippling shame at craving it. After what had happened to him, how could he want…

Was he twisted? Masochistic? Disgust coiled inside him and his hand tightened around the toy. A defiant voice in his head spoke up.

_So what?_

He was Draco Malfoy. Ex-Death Eater. He had done unspeakable things in his lifetime. Had endured unspeakable things.

_And by Merlin if he couldn’t bring himself to shove a damn toy in his arse, of all the things—!_

Draco took a deep, slow breath and shut his eyes. He wanted this. He did. He wanted to _be able _to do it. He maintained a steady pattern of breathing and reached into his bedside table drawer for a small tub. Slicking his fingers in lube, he tugged down the waistband of his pyjama bottoms.

He began slowly, teasing the base of his cock and stroking himself gently until he was hard. He kept one hand on his arse, bracing himself. Then, tentatively, he slipped a finger into his entrance—just the first couple of centimetres. A lump formed in his throat, and a sudden jolt of terror made him freeze. It didn’t hurt. Not at all, yet he couldn’t bring himself to go any deeper.

A low hiss of frustration escaped between his teeth. He was barely in to his first knuckle! Why couldn’t he—

_“Quiet now, boy. Wouldn’t want anyone to find you like this, now would you? Bent over and pretty with my—”_

Draco’s frustration ascended to panic and he pulled his hand away with a stifled whimper. His erection had softened and his nausea was mounting. He pressed a hand over his mouth to suppress a sob. His cheeks were damp.

The toy lay on the sheets at his side and he looked at it with disgust. Shame crashed over him. What was wrong with him? _I must be a masochist_, he thought as he tossed the toy in the drawer and slammed it shut. _Something is wrong with me. I’m broken._

He didn’t sleep much that night, his dreams plagued by the rough hands of his attacker, and too-familiar bright green eyes, filled with pity—and this time, disgust.


	4. Artefacts and Artful Insults

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco certainly know how to get under each other's skin.

Draco studied the locket, turning it over in his palm. It was heavier than a thing of its size should have been, and even through the leather gloves, it was icy cold. He had given up trying to spell it open a couple of days ago, and had taken to gazing at it during his breaks instead. It always seemed to be emitting a strange, ethereal hum. A sound that almost wasn’t there, yet if Draco looked at it for too long, he found minutes could pass in what felt like seconds.

“Hoping to get it open by staring at it, are you?”

Draco flinched, shoving the locket back in its drawer. He looked up to find Thornwood standing over him, her thin lips curled into a sneer. 

Thornwood was a severe woman. She kept her grey hair pinned back in a tight bun, and walked like someone had glued a rod to her spine. She wasn’t very fond of Draco. “No,” he said. “I was just—”

“I don’t really care what you were doing to be honest, Malfoy,” she said coldly. Draco caught Smith smirking at him across his desk. “I need you to run an errand for me.”

“Why me?” he asked, and almost immediately regretted it. Thornwood frowned, her sharp eyebrows furrowing.

“Because I’m asking you, boy. I need you to make a visit to the Aurors upstairs. I think they’re still holding onto a couple of the Wales artefacts and haven’t bothered telling us.”

“If they didn’t give them to you, I doubt they’ll give them to me,” Draco laughed. “Robards doesn’t like me very much.”

“No one likes you very much,” Thornwood said with a cool smile. 

“Hear, hear,” Smith muttered, too quiet for Thornwood to catch. Finch-Fletchley snorted.

“Tell them I sent you,” Thornwood went on. “And if they give you trouble, use that forked tongue of yours.”

“I believe the term is ‘silver-tongue’, Deputy.”

“I am well aware of what the term is, Malfoy. Now get me the artefacts and I might forgive the fact that you still haven’t learned respect.” Draco scowled and watched her walk away, before glancing around the room. A small blonde figure was darting between desks, tripping over her own feet in her haste.

“Ambrose!” Draco barked. She jumped and spun around, her eyes going wide when she saw him. She scurried over, clutching an armful of books and parchment.

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Keep an eye on my desk for me while I’m upstairs.” He cleared his throat and forced out a, “Please.” She blinked at him owlishly. “And don’t touch any of my stuff or I’ll turn you into a dishrag,” he snapped. She gulped and nodded hastily.

Draco seldom returned from errands to find his desk jinx-free. More than once, he’d had to run to the bathroom with a bleeding nose after stumbling into an ‘accidental’ bat-bogey hex. Unsurprisingly, the culprits were never caught—not by Thornwood at any rate, conveniently. At least with Ambrose hovering around, people (Smith) might think twice before tossing stray hexes into his general vicinity.

“You don’t have to do what he says, Ambrose,” Smith said. His words would almost have been kind, were he not glaring at Draco. Ambrose hopped anxiously on the spot.

“W-well, I—”

“As a matter of fact, she does have to do what I say,” Draco said. “I’m her superior.”

“Well you’re not mine,” Smith said haughtily. “Maybe I have errands I want her to do for me.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Really, Smith. It’s inappropriate to flirt in the workplace.” Finch-Fletchley looked deliberately at his desk, biting his cheek, while Smith’s face turned red.

“I—I wasn’t!” he spluttered indignantly. Ambrose was looking alarmed, her eyes round.

“Ambrose, stay by my desk,” Draco said, forcing a smile. “If he gives you any trouble, just turn your back on him. He’s like a dog. He’ll lose interest fairly quickly.”

“Go fuck yourself, Malfoy!”

Draco shot Smith his middle finger as he walked away. Regardless of what Smith tried to talk her into, Draco was fairly certain Ambrose was more afraid of him than she was of Smith.

The moment he stepped out of the lift onto level two, he felt the eyes of half the room on him. A hush fell over the desks nearest to him, people pausing mid-conversation to stare. _Law enforcement, _he thought bitterly._ Utterly shameless._

Potter and Weasley were standing in the middle of the room, their gazes fixed on him. Draco made a point of ignoring them and marched directly to Robards’ office, rapping firmly on the door. He caught sight of Potter out of the corner of his eye—honestly, if he stared any harder, he was going to burn a hole in the back of Draco’s skull.

Robards called for him to enter and he stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. Robards was bent over his desk, his quill scratching against a piece of parchment. “Yes?” he said without looking up.

“Head Auror Robards,” Draco said, clearing his throat. “Deputy Thornwood sent me. For the rest of the Wales artefacts. She believes your department is still holding onto some of them.”

Robards glanced at him and his eyes briefly widened. He schooled himself, twisting the end of his short beard around his fingers. “Yes—you will have to take that up with Auror Potter. He was in charge of that mission.” Draco’s heart clenched at the mention of Potter.

“Right,” he said through gritted teeth. “Thanks.”

“Mr. Malfoy, is it?” Robards called, and Draco froze with his hand on the doorknob.

“... yes.”

Robards studied him with a cool expression. “How is your father?”

Draco inhaled, pushing down a flicker of resentment. “I wouldn’t know,” he said quietly. Then, spurred on by spite, “Perhaps you should ask him yourself, Head Auror.”

“Oh believe me, I intend to keep a close eye on him,” Robards said, returning to his writing. “And his son.” 

Draco stared at his bowed head, a number of scathing remarks rolling on the tip of his tongue. Grinding his teeth to keep them restrained, he opened the door and left. Potter was nowhere in sight now, and his office door was closed. As reluctant as he was to be in a room alone with Potter, Draco crossed the room to his door, returning the scowls he received with cold vehemence. He idly wondered if any of the people on this floor had been present at his trial.

He opened Potter’s door without knocking, and Potter looked up from his desk, eyebrows shooting up. “Malfoy.”

“Potter.” Draco could see Weasley across the room, watching him closely. He wore the same look he had the other night when he’d confronted Draco in the atrium. Shooting Weasley a dry smile, he closed Potter’s office door. The room was obnoxiously bright, the walls plastered with Quidditch posters and various team scarves. There were even flowers on his desk—doubtless, a gift from one of his many, _many _admirers. “Merlin, this room is ghastly. Surely it’s against Ministry protocol to offend walls this much.”

Potter let out a sigh. “What do you want?”

“I’m here for the rest of the artefacts,” Draco said. “From the Wales mission.”

“I already gave them all to your department.”

“Thornwood doesn’t seem to think so. She’s of the belief that you’ve decided to hold onto some of them and not bothered telling us.” He shrugged when Potter scowled. “Her words, not mine. She can be rather fastidious.”

“Is this a joke, Malfoy? Because I have work to do.”

“Oh, really?” Draco strode over to Potter’s desk and glanced down. Pushing aside the precarious stack of parchment, he picked up the magazine beneath, despite Potter’s frantic protests and grabs. “‘_Quidditch Studs through the Ages_. How fascinating...”

“It’s not what you think,” Potter said, his face turning very pink. 

“It’s not? Because it looks an awful lot like you’re getting off on—”

“Give it back,” Potter snapped, reaching for the magazine. Draco let him take it, smirking down at him triumphantly.

“I’ll tell her you’ll have a look then?”

“You can tell her that. But it would be a lie.”

Draco sighed, exasperated. “You haven’t ceased to be the most arrogant, stubborn little twat in the wizarding world, have you?”

“Funny, I’d say the same thing about you.”

Draco laughed, folding his arms. “You’re really not even going to bother looking for them? Is it because it’s me asking?”

“No, it’s because I’m not a liar and I don’t have any of your bloody artefacts. I gave them all to Thornwood already.”

“Fine. I’ll just go back and tell her all Aurors are a bunch of prats. Because they are.”

“Go ahead,” Potter said, dipping his quill into his inkwell and returning to his parchment.

“Or…” Draco leaned over Potter’s desk and he looked up, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses. Draco quite enjoyed having the height advantage, for a change. “I could tell her that the prestigious Auror Potter has pornography in his desk drawer.” He grinned when Potter’s expression darkened. “Or better yet! I could go straight to Robards—” Potter grabbed his wrist and his heart thudded.

“Are you actually blackmailing me?” Potter hissed. “Because—because you should know…” He grimaced and glanced at the door, as if afraid someone might be listening in. Honestly, it wouldn’t have surprised Draco if they had been. “Everyone knows already. They all know I’m—that I like men. So don’t even bother trying to—”

Draco’s smile disappeared, and he swallowed heavily. “Oh goodness—no. I’m sorry, Potter, I didn’t mean—” Potter’s hand was still tight around his wrist and Draco squirmed, uncomfortable. “I wasn’t going to—to _out _you. I didn’t mean it like that.” Potter let go of his wrist and he breathed out, rubbing it and tugging his sleeve down. “Though it still is technically against protocol to have porn in your desk, you know.”

Potter gave him a deadpan look, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Draco sighed. “Can you just—just _say _you looked for the artefacts? Back up my story to Thornwood? Though I doubt she could hate me any more than she already does, I’m not really willing to test that theory.”

Potter frowned. “Yeah. All right.”

“Thanks.” Draco turned but Potter caught his wrist again. This time, Draco yanked it out of his hold. “Can you stop doing that?” he snapped, pulling his arm to his chest.

“Sorry,” Potter said, dropping his hand. “Force of habit, er—” He dropped his gaze, fidgeting. “I just wanted to ask if… if everything’s all right with you.”

Draco stared at him, but there was nothing in his expression to indicate scorn or insincerity. Yet Draco still found himself saying, “What? You don’t care.”

Potter frowned—and there it was. That jarring pity that made Draco want to shrivel. “You think I don’t care?”

Draco bit his lip, his fists trembling at his sides. “No, I don’t. Why would you? We’re not friends.”

“I—I don’t know. I was just thinking…”

“You feel sorry for me.”

Potter stared at him in bewilderment. He pushed at his glasses and leaned in. “Malfoy, that’s—that’s not…”

Draco shut his eyes, memories flashing through his conscious. _Pitying, emerald green eyes staring down at him, a hand reaching out, his name—and more pity. So much damn pity! _“I should get back before Thornwood finds a reason to give me a suspension,” he said quietly. “Enjoy the magazine. Though if you want my advice, the fourth edition is much better than the fifth.”

“Malfoy, if you ever need—”

“Need what? A shoulder to cry on?” He snorted. “A saviour? Your _pity_? The offer is noted, but hard pass.”

“I was going to say someone to talk to.”

Draco looked at him, at his deep green eyes, glistening with sincerity behind his glasses—and knew exactly what he was thinking about. Draco’s insides churned, and suddenly, he was struck by the memory again. _Cold laughter, his own tears and blood dripping onto the classroom floor—_

“I’ll manage, but thanks.” He turned and made for the door.

“Hey!” Potter called. “You know, I… I don’t think you’re all bad, Malfoy.”

Draco looked back and smiled wryly, shaking his head. “You’d be the first.”

“That’s not true. Not everyone hates you, you know.”

Draco crossed his arms. “Name five people in this office who don’t hate me.”

Potter’s brows furrowed at the centre, a comical look of concentration on his face. “Well, there’s… um…”

Draco snorted. “Valiant effort.”

“It was hardly a fair question. The Aurors aren’t exactly fond of—” He cut himself off and nudged his glasses up, clearing his throat. “I’m going to stop talking.”

“Wise decision.” Draco turned the doorknob, but Potter called out again.

“There’s me—I don’t hate you.” When Draco looked back, his cheeks were a little pink, his eyes on his desk. “So there. That’s someone.”

Draco hesitated at first, then smirked and walked back to Potter’s desk. “Why not? You have every reason to hate me.”

“No I don’t. I mean, yeah you were a prat in school—still are,” he added quickly. “But I just think that you’re…”

Draco rested his hands on Potter’s desk and leaned forward. “Irresistibly attractive?”

“No!” Potter said, a little too defensively. “No, it’s just that… I know you haven’t exactly had it easy these past few years, and…” He took a deep breath. “I just want you to know that you can talk to me. About anything, you know?”

_ Not about anything, _ Draco thought, his mind treacherously settling back on that cold, repulsive memory. Ironically, he was fairly certain that was exactly what Potter was talking about. Sighing, he moved back towards the door. “Look, Potter. I get it. You like helping people. You like _saving _them.” At that, Potter’s expression darkened, but Draco went on. “But I don’t want you to help me. I don’t need it. So—so piss off.”

Potter’s lips formed a tight line. “You know, I’m starting to think there might be a reason everyone hates you.”

It stung, just a little, but Draco arranged his features into a cool smirk. “Figured it out, have you? Who would have thought. The saviour of the wizarding world is a genius too.”

“I’m not a saviour,” Potter snapped, his grip tightening on the edge of his desk. And oh, it had always been so easy to rile him up. “That’s not—you don’t actually believe all that saviour rubbish the Prophet is always spewing up, do you?”

“Oh no, not at all. You’re an arsehole.”

“Then why won’t you let me help you?”

“Because I don’t want your bloody help, Potter!” Draco shut his eyes, biting his cheek. “I don’t need to be _fixed._” Genuine anger was bubbling in his chest. _Damn Potter. _He may be fun to mess with, but he always had a way of getting under Draco’s skin. Prodding at the places that hurt. Draco unclenched his fists and exhaled slowly. “So please just… stop.”

The look on Potter’s face was not that of someone intent on leaving him alone. He scanned Draco’s face, sincerity in his eyes. “Draco…” He shook his head when Draco opened his mouth to snap at him. “Sorry—Malfoy. I just want to know if—I mean, we’ve never talked about—”

“_Don’t._” Draco’s chest seized up, his voice growing weak as his throat constricted. “Don’t, Potter. Please. Just don’t.”

_ Don’t! Don’t… _

_ Malfoy… I can help. _

_ Get away from me, Potter! _

Draco realised he was breathing into his hand, which was clapped firmly over his mouth. He wiped it across his face and through his hair, his breath shaking. Without another word, or so much as a glance in Potter’s direction, he turned and hurried out.

** **** **

By some miracle, Draco didn’t stumble into any wandering hexes or jinxes when he arrived back on level three. He’d have to thank Ambrose for that later. He knocked on Thornwood’s door and entered. She scowled when she looked up. “Yes? What do you want?”

“The Aurors didn’t have any of the artefacts.”

“Oh, those? I know. I found them in a box on my bookshelf.”

Draco stared at her. “Nice of you to have told me that.”

She narrowed her eyes, lowering her pointed glasses. “You’d best watch your tone when speaking to me, boy. I am not above taking disciplinary action.” Draco’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent. “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Malfoy? Or are you just going to stand there and test my patience?”

Draco shut his eyes briefly, withholding a quarry of words that were likely to earn him a suspension. “No. Thanks, Deputy.” With composure that surprised even himself, he slowly opened the door and walked back out. “Ambrose!” he called, searching the room. “I need those reports on the Lestrange artefacts.” He scanned the office but there was no sight of the girl. Exhaling, he returned to his desk, muttering to himself about incompetence.

He reached for the handle of his desk drawer and froze. It was slightly ajar, a pale sliver of blue light shining from within. Cursing under his breath, he put on the leather protection gloves and opened the drawer. The light was coming from the locket, which was open a crack. Heart thrumming, Draco levitated it out of the drawer and placed it on his desk. He could still hear the faint hum—only it was louder now, almost melodic.

He swallowed thickly, looking around the room frantically. “Ambrose?”

“She went to the bathroom,” Smith said sourly. “Probably in tears again, thanks to you.”

“Yes, I’m sure my absence wounded her greatly. What did you say to her, Smith?”

Smith looked defensive. “I didn’t say anything! All I did was ask her how she was, and if she was liking her new job and—”

“She seemed distracted,” Finch-Fletchley said quickly, casting Smith a deliberate look. “Kept saying how she had to go. Had things to do.”

“Yeah—oh, and she went through your desk.” Smith was smirking, as if taking great pleasure in the fact that she’d gone against Draco’s instructions.

“That idiotic—” Draco cast a quick warding charm over the locket and shoved it back in his drawer, locking it. People stared as he rushed between their desks, dodging the memos that fluttered through the room. When he reached the women’s bathroom, he knocked on the door and slowly pushed it open. “Ambrose?” She was standing over the sink with both taps on. It was overflowing, water spilling onto the black tiles. Draco hesitated in the doorway. “Ambrose, did you…?” He broke off as her head snapped up with startling speed. She stared at him, eyes wide.

“Draco,” she said, her voice light. _She never called him that. _“What on earth are you doing in the lady’s room!”

“Ambrose,” he said, approaching her cautiously. “Did you touch the locket?”

“It called to me,” she whispered, her eyes glazed. “I could hear the song…”

“Did you open it?” Draco kept his hand poised at his hip, ready to reach for his wand. Ambrose tilted her head.

“Draco Malfoy…” She gazed at him, her unnaturally pale eyes searching his face. Then suddenly, she lashed out and gripped his left arm, pushing up his sleeve. Her eyes darkened as they fell onto the Dark Mark, faded, but still prominent against his pale skin. Something twisted in her expression, and before Draco could pull out his wand, she shoved his head into the sink, forcing it beneath the water.

The rush of water around Draco’s ears drowned out his sharp yelp. He kicked and fought, but Ambrose’s strength was inhuman and she held him with ease. Blood pounded in his ears and his lungs began to burn, icy water splashing over his shoulders as he struggled. His skull throbbed, white spots flashing before his eyes. With a shaking hand, he squeezed his wand out of his pocket and cast a wordless stunning charm.

Ambrose shrieked and hurtled back as it struck her, landing heavily against the far wall and slumping forward with her chin on her chest. Draco doubled over, coughing and gasping. He turned and leaned against the sink to catch his breath. Water spilled down his forehead and neck, his hair hanging limp against his face. He stared at Ambrose for a few seconds before rushing from the bathroom, shouting Thornwood’s name.


	5. It's not friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry is definitely not attracted to Draco Malfoy.

“Siren’s Song, you say?”

Thornwood nodded. “Seems like it, judging by Miss Ambrose’s behaviour.” Robards frowned, holding his chin between his thumb and forefinger. Harry glanced at Malfoy on the other side of Robards’ desk. His hair was damp against his forehead, and his white shirt was soaked around the shoulders. Harry could see his collarbone through the wet fabric, just as sharp and defined as the rest of him.

Malfoy looked up suddenly, catching Harry’s eye, and Harry glanced away quickly. “Where is she now?” he asked, eyeing the locket on Robards’ desk. It was surrounded in warding charms, but he could still see a glimpse of silver light glowing from within.

“The girl has been safely delivered to St. Mungo’s,” Thornwood said. “I think it would be wise to keep her… detained. For the moment. We don’t know how potent this magic is, and she could be trying to drown herself next.”

Malfoy’s quiet laugh drew their attention. “Yeah. Lucky it was just me the first time.”

“You were the one stupid enough to leave the locket within reach, boy,” Thornwood snapped, her blue eyes cold as she surveyed him. “What were you thinking?”

“I left it in my desk drawer,” Malfoy spat back, glaring at her. “Under lock, not that it makes much difference. But it’s not as if anyone else in the department follows protocol—”

“Your incompetence almost got a girl killed!”

“_I’m _the one who almost died!”

“All right, that’s enough!” Robards bellowed, silencing both of them. “Thornwood, I’m sure the boy meant no harm. Simple green negligence on his part, I expect. And the witch is safe now.” Harry caught Malfoy scowling at being called ‘boy’ again. Robards sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The artefacts you retrieved are more dangerous than we anticipated, Potter. Best that they’re passed on to more experienced hands for further examination,” he said, nodding at Thornwood.

“As you say, Head Auror.”

“I’ll keep a hold of this,” Robards said, levitating the locket into its box and waving his wand over the locks. Magic wisped around the seal and there were a series of clicks. “We’ll make sure it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands again. And it may aid our search for the remaining Death Eaters.” Malfoy was scowling at the floor, and Harry noticed him digging his nails into his left arm beneath his sleeve.

“If you need the assistance of my department, do let me know, Head Auror,” Thornwood said.

“I will be certain to do so,” Robards said. “You may go. Not you, Mr. Malfoy,” he added, as Malfoy made to follow her. “Have a seat, please.” Scowling, Malfoy sat down with a huff. Harry hovered next to Robards’ chair, tapping the handle of his cane and pushing up his glasses.

Taking out his wand, Malfoy waved it over his head, and a warm breeze ruffled his hair, drying the remaining damp. “Yes, Head Auror?” he drawled, sprawling out in the chair. Robards considered him. His gaze was level, and if he held any disdain for the defiance on Malfoy’s face, he didn’t show it.

“I want the two of you working on this case together,” he said at last. Malfoy’s smile vanished at once.

“What?”

Harry cleared his throat, frowning. “Robards, I’m not sure if—”

“I wasn’t asking for you input, Potter,” Robards said shortly. “I think we may be able to track these criminals using the artefacts. You’ll need the guidance of an expert if you are to do so, Potter.”

“_Expert?_” Harry echoed.

Malfoy cleared his throat. “As offended as I am by Potter’s incredulity, I am rather inclined to agree, Head Auror. I’ve only been here two months. Why not ask someone with more experience?” He was watching Robards with calculated mistrust, Harry noticed, his grey eyes searching the older man’s face.

“Perhaps you underestimate yourself, Mr. Malfoy,” Robards said plainly. “You have been studying this artefact for the past week, after all. I dare say you have a better understanding of this type of magic than most others in your department.” Malfoy’s jaw tightened and he remained unconvinced, his frown deepening. “And I’ve heard you’re quite the fast learner,” Robards went on, apparently unfazed by Malfoy’s dubiety. “She may be hard on you, but Thornwood speaks highly of your abilities. She’s told me you’re a smart man.”

Something twitched in Malfoy’s expression. But after a moment, he sighed, folding his hands in his lap. “Fine. I’ll work the case then.”

“Good. Because it wasn’t a request.” Robards smiled complacently.

“Am I free to go?” Malfoy asked, crossing his arms. “Or do I need special permission for that too, _Auror _Robards?”

The lack of senior title was not lost on Robards, but he merely sighed, waving his hand. “Yes. Go. Please.”

Malfoy stood up, smirking at Harry when he reached the door. “Looking forward to the case, Potter.”

Harry watched him go, then turned to Robards. “Permission to leave, sir?”

“Granted,” Robards said, dipping his quill in its inkwell. “But come right back. I need a word with you.”

Harry nodded and hurried out after Malfoy despite the protesting ache in his leg, his cane clicking noisily against the floor. “Malfoy—” He reached for Malfoy’s shoulder then hesitated, remembering the way he’d recoiled earlier. To his relief, Malfoy stopped walking, turning around with casual annoyance.

“Yes, Potter?”

Harry swallowed and glanced around. Ron was eyeing them from his office door, and he wasn’t the only one. “I—I just wanted to say that—”

“You don’t have to pretend to be nice to me just because we’re working together,” Malfoy said wearily.

Harry blinked. “I—I’m not pretending…”

“Then what are you playing at?”

Harry bit his tongue in frustration, shutting his eyes. “You have to make everything difficult, don’t you? I’m trying to be nice.”

Malfoy’s brows shot up in immediate doubt. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry for not idly playing your charity case. Shall I lie on the floor and writhe in agony? Would that make this easier for you?” His jaw was clenched, and behind the false amusement, Harry could see genuine pain. Remembering his earlier blunder with Malfoy, he chose his next words carefully.

“No. That’s not what I want.” He spoke evenly, hoping his sincerity was obvious. “I’m just—I know you don’t need me. And I know you don’t want to talk about—” He caught himself, noticing the way Malfoy’s features hardened. “But, er, maybe we could… catch up?” He swallowed, feeling the blood rushing to his face. “As—as friends.” He suddenly felt hyper-conscious of the rest of the room. Much of the chatter had dropped to whispers, and even the memos flying overhead seemed to have slowed.

“But we’re not friends, Potter.” Malfoy’s words were spoken as a quiet acceptance of the fact, rather than a means of lashing out at Harry.

“Well… maybe we could be.” Harry offered him a small smile, which Malfoy returned with a mistrustful frown. His pale grey eyes were slightly bloodshot, Harry noticed, and ringed with dark purple.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Potter, but you and I don’t get along. We never have.”

“You and I were very different people at Hogwarts.” Harry noticed Malfoy’s fingers closing around his left forearm, scratching idly.

“Yes well. Some people just aren’t made to get along.” Harry sunk at the blatant rejection, leaning heavily on his cane. Malfoy narrowed his eyes, studying Harry’s face, then said, “Besides, maybe it’s not friendship I want from you.” His tongue darted over his lips, and he held eye contact. The meaning behind his words was not lost on Harry, who swallowed thickly, unexpected warmth suddenly pooling in his stomach.

He shook it off, trying to compose himself. _He must have misunderstood. _“What do you want from me then?” he asked, his voice emerging huskier than intended.

“I suppose that remains to be seen,” Malfoy replied, crossing his arms indifferently. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I assume. Good day, Potter.” Harry watched him walk away, his eyes dropping of their own volition. _Goodness, had Malfoy always worn such tight trousers?_

“Malfoy,” Harry called, a sudden burst of adrenaline surging through him. Malfoy turned and Harry’s heart skipped nervously. “I meant what I said the other night, you know. You—you do look good.” Those words alone were enough to attract the glances of most of the room, but Harry didn’t really care. He was too focused on the faint tint of colour which had risen to Malfoy’s cheeks.

Lifting his chin, he said, “So do you,” letting his eyes fall to caress the length of Harry’s body. “You’ve grown up.” A tingle ran down Harry’s spine and he watched Malfoy’s back until he was in the lift. Trying to distract himself from the rising heat in his groin, he walked back toward his office. A few people were still staring, but quickly returned to their business when Harry glared at them. He caught Ron’s eye across the room and gulped, flushing. Ron gave a very deliberate tilt of his head, eyebrows in his hairline. Harry grimaced and shook his head.

“Potter.” He turned to see Robards leaning out of his office. “Come and see me.” Huffing, Harry got up, casting Ron a _talk later _shrug and following Robards back into his office. He sat down in the same seat Malfoy had occupied earlier.

“What’s up?”

Robards folded his hands on his desk, exhaling. “I assume you’ve figured out that I haven’t put you on the case with the Malfoy boy solely because of his speciality in dark artefacts.”

“You haven’t?”

“Please.” Robards rolled his eyes. “He’s arrogant and incompetent. He hasn’t had to work for anything in his life and it shows. He has no respect for authority. I suppose his father is to blame for that.” Harry bristled, his fist tightening around his cane.

“Why then?” he asked shortly.

“I want you to keep an eye on him—and report back to me on anything… unusual. Especially anything pertaining to his father, Lucius Malfoy.”

Harry gripped the arm of his seat, the outrage inside him burning a little brighter. “You’re asking me to spy on him.”

“I suppose I am,” Robards said, seemingly unbothered by the fact.

“You can’t ask me to do that.”

“I’m not asking you, I’m ordering you, Potter.”

Harry’s jaw quivered. “You can find someone else then,” he spat, standing up even as his leg twinged. 

Robards looked unfazed. “Sit down, Potter.” When Harry didn’t move, he sighed and went on. “There is no one else for this case. You’ve been on it for months, and you’re one of our best. And… he trusts you.”

Harry scoffed. “You think Malfoy trusts me?”

“Or maybe he just wants to suck you off,” Robards said with an impatient wave of his hand. Harry tried not to blush at that. “Call it what you want. My point is, you’re the only suitable candidate for this case.”

“Well then.” Harry straightened the buttons down the front of his robes. “I suppose the position will remain vacant.” Without another word, he marched out of the room—as much as one with an injured leg could march—and slammed the door behind him.

********

“Can you believe it? He actually asked me to spy on him!” Harry took another sip of his beer, slamming the flagon back on the table a little too hard. “And then he had the audacity to tell me I couldn’t quit the case.”

“I mean, it’s not really that surprising, is it?” Ron said through a mouthful of chips. “What good has Malfoy ever done for anyone? Not exactly a stand-up guy. You know I saw him nearly hex the eyebrows off Dennis Creevey the other night? Probably would have done it if I hadn’t stepped in.” He winced when Hermione elbowed him. “Oi, ouch! What the bloody hell was that for?”

“Really, Ron!” she hissed. “Anyone could overhear you. You shouldn’t be speaking about Malfoy so blatantly.” To Ron’s credit, it wasn’t very busy at the Cauldron tonight. They’d picked a table tucked away in a corner booth, illuminated only by one small flickering candle. “Word travels fast,” Hermione said. “If he heard what you were saying about him—”

Ron snorted. “I hope he does! Probably doesn’t get told he’s a git often enough, the way he struts around.” Harry highly doubted that. He knew the Malfoys weren’t popular these days. Hermione seemed to agree, if the stilted look she gave him across the table was any indication of her thoughts. “Not as if everyone else isn’t thinking the same thing anyway,” Ron went on. “You ever met a person who actually likes Malfoy?”

“I don’t think he’s all bad,” Harry mumbled, looking into his flagon. Thankfully, neither Ron nor Hermione seemed to hear him.

“I think that’s beside the point,” Hermione said. “To ask Harry to spy on someone who works for the Ministry! It’s—”

“Technically legal,” Ron pointed out.

“I suppose you are right…” Hermione frowned, her hands clasped tightly around her butterbeer. “But highly unethical! What do you think you’ll do, Harry? I could speak to Kingsley about Robards for you if you like. Though I can’t be sure he’ll take your side…”

Harry shook his head. “It’s fine. I’ll… I’ll figure something out.” He grimaced. “I doubt Robards will take me off the case. I’ll probably just have to… pretend.”

“I mean, does it really hurt to keep an eye on Malfoy?” Ron asked, brow raised very deliberately at Harry. “If you’re working with him, probably best not to let your guard down, y’know?”

“Oh Ron!” Hermione looked around quickly before lowering her voice. “You don’t honestly think Malfoy would try to hurt Harry, do you?”

“I think he’d try to hurt a kitten if he had the opportunity,” Ron said stubbornly, and Hermione glowered.

“I don’t think he will,” Harry said. His eyes strayed across the room. At the bar, a group of witches were stealing glances at their table. They hurriedly looked away when Harry glanced at them, giggling to each other. Harry shifted in his seat, trying to hide his face. “Why would he?”

“Have you seen him, mate?” Ron hissed, leaning in. “He’s about as angry as a Hippogriff who’s had its tail feathers ripped out. Say the wrong thing and he’ll probably curse you into next week.”

“I think he’s just… lonely,” Harry said quietly. “And with his dad getting out and all—”

“Oh it’s awful, isn’t it?” Hermione whispered, looking ashen. “Lucius has been under house arrest since his release, but I was sent to the manor on some business for Shacklebolt the other week—goodness, the way he speaks to people! And his house-elf—” A few people glanced over at the sound of Hermione’s raised voice.

“Well that’s what I’m saying,” Ron murmured, leaning in. “Now that old Lucius is back in the picture, who knows what Malfoy’s up to? Dad says he reckons Lucius pulled some strings to get Draco that job—still has allies in some places, I’ve heard.”

Hermione’s jaw was tight and she was shaking her head. “It’s unfair to put his father’s mistakes on his shoulders,” she said. “The trials are over—I think we can stop blaming him for his family’s… associations.” Harry had to admit, it was surprising to hear Hermione of all people defending Malfoy. She had more reason to hate his family than most. “Ron does have a point though, Harry,” she continued, frowning. “Malfoy may not be a dark wizard… anymore—” She cleared her throat. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous.”

“I think you’re being unfair,” Harry said, growing frustrated. “You don’t know what he’s been through—”

“We’ve all been through shit, mate,” Ron said, frowning. “Doesn’t make us twats.”

Harry flared. “He’s not—” He shut his eyes, seeing blood, Malfoy’s blood, his teary, grey eyes, hearing his pained whimpers, the way he’d trembled— “He’s not a bad person,” Harry said at last. “I’m not going to treat him like one.”

“I dunno, Harry…”

“Excuse me… Harry Potter?” Harry glanced up to see one of the witches from the bar hovering next to his chair. Her cheeks were deep red, and she was fiddling with a strand of her dark hair. At the bar, her friends were watching them closely, whispering amongst each other.

“Er… yeah.” Harry tried to force a smile.

“We—um, I—I was just wondering if, um—” The girl stumbled over her words, her blush deepening by the second.

“You want him to sign something?” Ron asked. Her dark eyes widened and she nodded earnestly. “All right—Hermione?”

Offering the girl a sincere smile, Hermione reached into her satchel and retrieved a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill. “Here you go.”

“Th-thank you!” the girl stammered as Harry scribbled his signature on the page. He smiled at her as he handed it over, and she scurried back to her friends. Around the room, people were beginning to look toward their table. Sighing, Harry got up and picked his cane up off the floor.

“Think I’m gonna head home early,” he said.

“Yeah, us too,” Ron said, glancing around the room wearily. “Okay, Hermione?”

Hermione looked down, fidgeting with one of her curls. “Actually, I… I think I might have to head back to the office. Kingsley wanted me to get a bit more of that admin stuff done, and—”

“Again?” Ron asked, his shoulders sagging. “You’ve barely been home all week!”

“I—I know,” Hermione sighed, staring at her feet. “I just have a lot of work to get done. And I was hoping to finish that house-elf retirement proposal as well…”

Ron chewed his tongue, his mouth twisting unpleasantly as he nodded. “Right. Fine. Guess Harry and I are getting the Floo alone then.”

Hermione had shrunk in on herself. “I’m sorry, Ron,” she said quietly. “I—I should be back by ten.”

Ron inhaled. “Well, I’ll be in bed by then, so don’t wake me up when you get in.” He patted Harry’s arm, nudging him towards the stairs. “Come on then, Harry.”

Harry bid Hermione a quiet goodbye, feeling a little guilty as they walked away. She watched her feet as she gathered her things, looking miserable. Harry turned back to Ron, leaning in as they ascended the staircase. “Mate, is—is everything all right with you two?”

“Yeah, great,” Ron snapped, shoving his hands in his pockets. Harry shut his mouth after that, and didn’t mention Hermione again for the rest of the walk up to the Floo. It wasn’t often that he caught Ron and Hermione on a night off, but he found he was relieved when they reached the row of fireplaces on the upper floor of the Leaky Cauldron. Ron didn’t seem in much of a conversational mood. 

But when Harry took a handful of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantle, Ron put a hand on his arm, stopping him before he could step into the flames. “Harry, before you go… a word?”

Harry didn’t like that tone of voice. He dropped the powder back into the bowl and turned, his cane thunking against the hollow wooden floor. “What is it?” he asked, dusting his hand off on his robes.

“It’s about Malfoy.”

A lump formed in Harry’s throat. “Oh.”

Ron sighed, glancing warily at the staircase as a man and woman wandered into the room, chatting noisily. Once they had disappeared into the flames, Ron took Harry by the arm and led him to a shadowed corner of the room. Green flames flickered across his face, his expression serious. “I saw you talking to him today.”

“Yeah,” Harry said flatly. “We have a case together.”

“I know that… it just didn’t really sound like you were talking about work.”

Harry swallowed. “Right.”

Ron chewed his lip, then sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking awkward. “Look, mate. You’re an adult. You can do what you want—uh, who you want.”

Harry’s face grew hot. “Ron, that’s not what—”

“Just be careful,” Ron said, meeting his eye. “It is Malfoy.”

Harry rubbed his eye beneath his glasses, his cheeks warm. “Listen, I think you might be misunderstanding what was going on there. It wasn’t… I’m not trying to… you know. Not with _Malfoy._”

“I dunno, mate. It sounded a lot like flirting from where I was standing.”

Harry laughed, then realised Ron was being serious. “You can’t be—no! No, that’s not what it was. He just—he said something weird. So I was—responding to that. It wasn’t—it wasn’t flirting!” When Ron looked unconvinced, Harry laughed again, almost hysterically. “Ron, it’s Malfoy for fuck’s sake!”

“Yeah, I know that.” Ron glanced around before leaning in. “But he’s not exactly the pointy little rat he was in school now, is he?”

Harry narrowed his eyes, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean? What exactly are you saying?”

“It was Angelina who said it, not me.”

“Said _what_?” Harry hissed.

“When he came in this morning, she said that…” Ron shrugged, tilting his head. “Well, bit of a looker now, isn’t he? I mean—I assumed you would think so.”

Harry’s face grew hot, and he spluttered. “Well I—I _suppose_. I wasn’t really paying attention to all that.”

Ron pressed his lips together, but he couldn’t keep the amusement out of his eyes. “Right. Anyway. All I’m saying is, if you’re feeling… pent up, or whatever. Maybe direct your urges at someone who isn’t Draco Malfoy?”

Harry rolled his tongue over his teeth, struggling to look at Ron. “You know what? Fine. I’m going home with someone tonight. Someone who _isn’t _Malfoy.”

Ron snorted, his mouth turning up at the corner. “Yeah?”

Harry nodded, ambling over to the fireplace and taking a handful of powder. “Yep. Someone’s coming back to my place. Or the other way around. We’ll see.”

Ron laughed, crossing his arms and quirking a brow. “All right then. That’s what I like to hear.”

“And just so you know, this is utterly your fault,” Harry said before he stepped into the fireplace. “Completely.”

He wouldn’t tell Ron that, truthfully, it was the idea of going home to spend the evening alone in Grimmauld Place—again—that was driving this decision. Frankly, he probably wouldn’t take anyone home. He planned on hitting up a Muggle pub, away from the watchful eye of the wizarding world (and the _Daily Prophet_). If he pulled, fantastic. If not… well, that was nothing new.

But there was one thing he was certain of: he absolutely did not want to shag Draco Malfoy.


	6. Frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco receives a visit from an old friend... a visit he probably would rather have foregone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say a big thank you to everyone who has supported this fic thus far--be it through kudos, comments, or even just quietly reading each chapter. You're all very much appreciated. <3

To be drinking at a Muggle pub was rather unbecoming, Draco thought. It was a dingy place, tucked into a quiet corner of southern London. The lights overhead were a musty yellow, and the old floorboards creaked whenever someone walked past his table. But Draco had chosen it because it was quiet—and more to the point, no one here would recognise him.

He swirled his wine around his glass, watching a group of Muggles in numbered t-shirts push balls around a table with sticks. The things that fascinated Muggles…

Two of them—a man and a woman—had their heads ducked in quiet conversation. Draco’s stomach flipped when the woman whispered something that prompted the man to look over at Draco, his eyes lingering for a moment before he grinned. Blushing hard, Draco turned his face away. Were they… discussing _him_? He looked back discretely, letting his hair fall over his eyes.

The man, who was wearing a red shirt with the name ‘Beckham’ across the back, caught Draco’s eye and grinned again. In spite of himself, Draco felt his cheeks warming, an involuntary smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked away quickly, running a hand through his hair. He took a sip of wine and when he turned back around, the man was still watching him, his smile growing. He nudged the woman and said something that Draco couldn’t hear. Draco’s heart felt light with nervous excitement.

_ Oh Draco, how low you’ve sunk. _

He heard the man’s footsteps against the wooden floor as he approached, but didn’t look up. The table groaned beneath the man’s weight as he leaned against it. “Hey.”

Having another sip of wine and licking his teeth, Draco slowly lifted his head. “Hello.” The man looked older close up, black stubble lining his jaw, and his brown eyes crinkled around the corners.

“You here alone?” he asked.

Draco lifted his chin and held eye contact. “I suppose I am.”

The man grinned lopsidedly, revealing a set of slightly crooked teeth. He glanced over his shoulder at his friend, who was eyeing them with keen interest. Her arms were crossed, and it occurred to Draco that her red shirt matched the one the man in front of him was wearing. Maybe they played for the same team?

“So my friend and I have a bet,” the Muggle man said, resting his hand on the back of Draco’s chair. “Over whether you’re gay or not.”

The breath caught in Draco’s throat, a sudden anxiety churning his stomach. “W-well that’s—”

“Sorry,” the man said abruptly, taking a step away. “Don’t mean to pry, if you’re not comfortable sharing and all that. It’s just that… well we mostly wanted to know who had a better shot at taking you home tonight.”

“Oh.” Draco’s cheeks warmed, but he lifted his chin, keeping his composure. “So who bet what?”

The man’s mouth quirked, his eyes gleaming. “Well I’m over here talking to you. So how about I let you guess.” His tongue darted across his lips and a pleasant heat stirred in Draco’s stomach.

“Well in that case, you can go back and tell your friend you won.”

The man’s face split into a grin. He looked over his shoulder and shot his friend a triumphant look. Rolling her eyes, she walked back to re-join the rest of her Muggle friends. Turning back to Draco, the man asked, “What’s your name then?”

Draco considered lying. He seldom shared his name with potential bedmates. Then again, none of those bedmates had ever been Muggles. No one here knew who he was. “Draco,” he said at last.

The man laughed. “You’re kidding, right?” When Draco frowned, his laughter faded. “Oh wait, you’re being serious. What, your parents hippies or something?”

Draco stared at him, confounded. “Are my parents _what_?”

The man studied him, the laughter slowly returning to his eyes. “Uh—nevermind. Shaun, by the way.” He held out his hand. Draco considered it for a moment before shaking it.

“Shaun Beckham?”

Shaun blinked. “What? Er… no.”

“It’s on your shirt,” Draco pointed out.

Shaun blinked, then released a bark of laughter. “Oh—oh no, it’s not—” He grinned, shaking his head. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Draco’s heart clenched. “What makes you say that?” he asked defensively.

“Well apart from seeming to have no clue what football is—the accent. No one around here talks like that. Somewhere south, yeah? Or maybe you’re just straight outta Buckingham Palace.” Shaun laughed.

Draco swallowed, realising he’d misunderstood the initial question. “Wiltshire,” he said slowly. Shaun’s eyebrows went up and he gave a low whistle.

“Shit. Rich parents?”

“I suppose.” Draco shifted in his seat, far from eager to discuss his family.

Shaun seemed to catch on because he quickly changed the subject. “So what brings you this side of the Thames?” He winked. “Rebellion? Good company?”

Draco lifted his glass. “Wine. And I’m in London for work.”

“Yeah? What do you do?”

Draco chewed his tongue, humming. “You know, I’m not really in the mood to discuss my job.”

Shaun’s eye glinted. “Nah? What are you in the mood for then?”

Draco ran his tongue over his lips. “How about you buy me a drink and we talk about it?”

Shaun chuckled. “Rich kid like you can’t buy his own drinks?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I’m not a rich kid. And if you want anything out of me, you’ll be doing the courtesies.” Shaun look amused, and Draco gave an irritated wave of his hand. “Or just buy yourself a drink and sit down with me.”

Shaun’s brown eyes went soft, a pleased grin spreading across his face. “All right then, your highness.”

Someone pulled out the chair from across Draco, the legs dragging noisily against the floorboards. “Sorry mate, this seat’s actually taken.” Draco looked up and scowled. There was no way Blaise Zabini would be caught dead in a place like this, so Draco knew at once he’d been followed. Blaise’s handsome face was pulled into a sneer as he observed the Muggle man.

Shaun’s eyes narrowed as he glanced between Blaise and Draco. “Er, sorry, but I actually thought—”

“_Confundus_,” Blaise muttered carelessly, flicking his wand from beneath his coat. Shaun blinked, staggering back in a daze. He looked back at them, frowning.

“I, er, sorry… I should…” He pointed over his shoulder, then turned around and slowly wandered back to his friends.

Draco sighed, turning to Blaise with a cold glare. “You do know it’s illegal to do that to a Muggle, don’t you?”

“What?” Blaise sighed, waving his hand as he sat down. “It was self-defence. I was worried he was going to expose you.” Draco didn’t miss the innuendo, and blushed hotly, which only made Blaise smirk. “Oh come now Draco, you weren’t actually going to shag that Muggle, were you?” He slipped his wand away, his eyebrows shooting up when Draco scowled at the table. “Goodness, how long has it been for you?”

Draco’s face burned but he stared Blaise down defiantly. “Not that long—and I wasn’t going to—I was only flirting to mess with him.”

“Oh no you weren’t. I’ve seen your fake flirting—that wasn’t it. Your fake flirting is the type you used to use on Harry Potter when you wanted him to notice you.” Blaise’s mouth twitched with amusement when Draco clenched his jaw. He knew he’d struck a nerve.

_ Maybe it’s not friendship I want from you. _Draco still couldn’t believe those words had travelled from his brain to his mouth, and not once had he thought to stop them. Damn it. Why had Blaise brought up stupid Potter? Now Draco was thinking about his jaw and his hair and his arms and his—

“First of all,” he said, inhaling, “I never flirted with Potter. I doubt he’d know flirting if it hit him in the face like a bludger. And second of all—I wasn’t trying to get him to notice me. I never gave a shit about what he did.” The lie was so transparent, even Draco could hear it.

Blaise snorted. “Oh, _please_. You were practically creaming yourself for his attention.”

“Ugh.” Draco pulled a face. “You know, for someone who likes to pretend to be so elegant and respectable, you’re utterly vulgar.”

“I pretend no such thing,” Blaise said, studying his nails with a sniff. “Besides, it’s the truth.”

“Can we not talk about Harry fucking Potter?” Draco said, massaging his temples. “Why are you here?”

Blaise gave him a haughty look. “What? Am I not allowed to go out on a Friday night for a drink?”

“No. Not in a place like this. So just tell me why you decided to follow me.”

Blaise watched him, his gaze calculated. “You’ve been ignoring our owls.”

“Oh, _our _owls, is it? They really chose to send you of all people?” Draco laughed derisively. “You’re not exactly the warm encompassment of friendship, you know.”

“I lost a wager,” Blaise said tersely. “I don’t have to be here you know.”

“No, you don’t. So you’re more than welcome to leave.” Draco glanced back at the Muggles across the pub. Shaun was watching them with a frown, still looking slightly dazed. His friend who he’d made the bet with was trying to say something to him, and her eyes drifted briefly to Draco. “I was having a perfectly pleasant evening before you showed up,” Draco said, looking back at Blaise.

“Oh, you’re referring to that dimwit of a Muggle?” Blaise tutted. “Come now Draco, you could do a lot better than that. Even in the Muggle department.”

“Have you come here just to criticise me? Or is your presence actually as unnecessary as I think it is?”

Blaise sighed, glancing away. “They—we… miss you.” His face twisted, as if the confession caused him great physical pain. “You’ve barely spoken to us since your father—” He cut himself off, and a pang shot through Draco’s chest.

“Well you know how it is,” he muttered, picking at a splinter on the table. “New job, new place, barely a minute to myself.”

“Oh? And how is that new job?” Blaise’s gaze was calculating as he tapped his slender fingers on the table. “Have they promoted you to the Auror’s division yet?”

If Draco hadn’t known Blaise so well, his tone would have come across as mocking. Well, perhaps it still was, just a little. But the look in his eye told Draco he meant it genuinely. The question brought a sick sinking feeling to Draco’s stomach, and he clenched his hands in his lap. “Yes, the Auror division is always looking to hire ex-Death Eaters,” he said bitterly, rubbing the tingling spot on his left forearm. “It’s practically in the job description at this point.” Despite Draco’s attempts to avoid his gaze, Blaise seemed insistent on trying to look him in the eye.

“There’s a first time for everything, Draco.”

“Not this.” Draco took a long sip of wine, almost draining the glass. “You know, if you lot really wanted me back, you would have sent Pansy or someone. But you’re about as convincing as a screaming mandrake.”

Blaise arched a brow, but ignored Draco’s obvious change of subject. “Flattered. But since I’m here anyway, I may as well order something. What do Muggles drink?”

“Mostly piss.”

Blaise gave him a foul look and waved his hand to summon the bartender. She stalked over irritably and crossed her arms. “Yeah? What you want?”

“I’ll take a firewhiskey,” Blaise said. “I’m going to need something strong to get through this conversation.” He winked at Draco, who met his eye coldly.

The Muggle woman gave him a strange look. “Think you’re funny, mate?” Blaise opened his mouth but Draco leaned over.

“He’ll just take regular whiskey, thank you.” He pushed Blaise’s hand away when he tried to offer the bartender a handful of sickles. “Keep the spares,” he said, handing the woman a few Muggle coins.

“Goodness, you clearly spend far too much time around Muggles,” Blaise said disapprovingly as she walked away.

“Yes, you’re quite welcome,” Draco snapped. “Next time I’ll let her kick you out.”

“I almost wish you had. Merlin, I don’t know how you can stand this place.” The bartender came over and placed a glass of whiskey in front of Blaise. He took a sip and wrinkled his nose. “I mean the smell alone—”

“You’re more than welcome to leave.”

Blaise sighed, putting down his whiskey. “Alas, I’m not the type to break a promise.”

“Well we both know that’s a lie.”

“It is. But I’d still feel guilty about breaking this one.” At Draco’s questioning look, he cleared his throat and brushed off his coat. “At the very least it’ll shut Pansy up. She won’t stop going on about you.”

“How is she?” Draco asked, looking at the table. “And the others.”

“You can bloody ask them yourself, you little prat.”

Draco scowled. “It’s not as easy as that…”

“It is. Write a letter and say ‘hey Pans, been a while. Sorry for being such an utter piece of—”

“Your advice is noted.” Draco spoke coldly, but inside, his stomach was twisting into knots. He recalled the thick pile of letters in his desk drawer with Pansy’s name on them. “Is Theodore okay?” he asked quietly.

Blaise pressed his lips tight. “He’s fine.”

“Is he? His father is still rotting away in Azkaban.”

Blaise waved a hand in nonchalance. “I don’t think he’s ever cared for his father much anyway.”

“Me neither but I’m still glad mine’s not in there,” Draco muttered.

Blaise’s dark eyes narrowed. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding us? Because honestly Draco, you can spare Theo your pity. And your guilt. He doesn’t resent you for having a rich prick for a father.”

“Well he’s one of the few then.” Draco grit his teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t been avoiding you on purpose. I just… need some time alone.”

“Do you? Because you look terrible. Has anyone told you that?”

“I’m frequently reminded that I _am _terrible, I’m not sure anyone’s ever taken a jab at my looks.” Draco scratched his left forearm out of instinct before catching himself. “Besides, I’m fine.”

“Likely story. You’re one of the most poorly adjusted people I know.”

“This whole ‘berate Draco’ game is becoming rather tiresome,” Draco snapped.

“‘Scuse me gents.” They looked up as the bartender placed two glasses of wine on their table. Her smile looked as if it was causing her pain. “Courtesy of the ladies at the bar.” She walked off and Draco glanced past her to see two Muggle women smiling at them across the room. He supposed they were pretty, as far as Muggles went—though he wasn’t entirely sure what the Muggle standard of beauty was. Both had full faces and curves, and pleasant smiles. Their lipstick was deep red, and their clothes certainly didn’t look cheap.

Blaise picked up the drink and examined it suspiciously. “Well you’re certainly popular tonight.”

Draco gave the wine a sniff. “The high-end stuff too—if you can call anything from this place high-end. Poor women probably chose the two least interested men in the place.”

“Indeed,” Blaise said, taking a cautious sip from his glass. “A man with very little interest in Muggles, and a man with very little interest in women—something I myself can attest to,” he added, brushing a finger over his lips with a sly smile.

Draco sighed, tired. “For goodness sake, you’re not still on about that, are you?”

“On about what? You know I don’t fuck Muggles, Draco. Even if you’ve started doing it.”

_ Had Blaise always been this intolerable? _“No. About—about the time we—”

“Oh, you mean when you kissed me?”

Draco glared. “I’m pretty sure it was you who kissed me.”

“Uh, no. Definitely not. You were drunk, you must have forgotten.”

“Of course I was drunk,” Draco said, swirling his wine around its glass. “I wouldn’t have kissed you sober.”

“So you admit, you _did _kiss me.”

“Oh, whatever,” Draco snapped with an irritated flick of his hand. “Either way, you kissed me back—enthusiastically, I might add.”

“I was only being polite,” Blaise said dismissively. Draco was certain if he rolled his eyes anymore tonight, they would get lost in the back of his skull.

Taking a long breath to gather his composure, he asked, “How many people have you told, by the way?”

“That you’re bent?” 

Draco shifted in his seat, scowling at the floor. “Yeah that.”

Blaise shrugged. “I don’t really have anyone to tell, everyone knows already—not that I’d go blabbing about it anyway.”

Draco swallowed heavily. “Do they really know?”

The alarm in Draco’s voice must have been obvious, because Blaise sighed. “Mate, no one cares that you like men.” Draco wished he wouldn’t speak so loudly, Muggle pub or not.

“You’d be surprised,” he mumbled into his wine glass.

“Well, no one who matters.”

“My parents—my father…” Draco’s fist tightened around his glass and Blaise grimaced, dropping his gaze. “I just… I don’t want this becoming another piece of gossip. This is my thing. Not my family’s, or something to do with my past. It’s just… me.” He scratched his arm again, the mark prickling.

“Yeah. I get it, mate.” Blaise’s eyes drifted to Draco’s arm but he quickly looked back up. “You should really talk to the others—Pansy, at the very least. You’re not good on your own.”

“I’m sick of relying on other people to solve my problems for me.”

_ Why won’t you let me help you? _

_ Because I don’t want your bloody help, Potter! _

Ah, there he went again, thinking of Potter. It was probably the alcohol. Potter often seemed to pop into his thoughts when he was intoxicated. For some, inexplicable reason.

“I’m not telling you to do that.” Blaise studied him, frowning. “What’s really going on with you? It’s not just about your father, is it?”

Draco wrung his hands together on the table, chewing his lip. “It’s…” _I can’t sleep because every time I close my eyes I can feel what he did to me in my body, feel his hands in my hair… see Potter’s eyes… _“Nothing. I’ve just been sleeping badly.”

“Nightmares?” Draco’s silence seemed to confirm the fact for Blaise. “About what? The Dark Lord?”

“No, not really…” Draco scratched his forearm, his throat tight. He shut his eyes and saw the cold silver mask, heard the muffled grunts behind him, pitying green eyes— “Just. Just a lot of things. All piling up.” His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. His jaw was quivering. “I—think I need another drink,” he said, somewhat breathlessly. Blaise was frowning, and seeing sympathy in his face was not something Draco needed. “Don’t feel sorry for me, you prat,” he snapped. “I don’t need pity from _you _of all people.”

“It’s not pity. Frankly I think you’re being an idiot. Isolating yourself—”

“If you tell me one more time that I need friends in this time—”

“Just write back to Pansy, you stubborn arsehole.” Blaise stood up, straightening his gloves. “Anyway, I’ve had enough of trying to reason with you. I’m going to go find somewhere more civilised for a drink. Care to join me?”

Draco glanced around the pub. People were slowly trickling out, including Shaun and his group. Sighing, Draco drained the glass of wine the Muggle women had sent over, then stood up. “Sure. I haven’t had nearly enough to drink tonight.”

There was a reason Draco often set a threshold for himself when it came to alcohol. One too many drinks and he tended to get a little… over-friendly. It had never landed him in any sort of trouble, but it had often been the subject of his friends’ mockery.

But tonight, he was willing to take that risk. Maybe if he got drunk enough he’d be able to stop thinking about bloody Potter. Or better yet, maybe he’d find someone willing to take him home and _make_ him forget about Potter, even if it was just for one night. Blaise was a twat, but he was right—it had been a while. Draco’s recent celibacy was probably the cause of all this Potter-related frustration. He just needed a good fuck and then he could continue his sex life, Harry Potter-free.

Yes, he decided. A sound plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit, Blaise is a little too much fun to write, considering what a dickhead he is.


	7. A Fortuitous Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Depending on how you look at it, drunk Malfoy is either a very good thing, or a very bad thing.

At first, Harry didn’t hear it. It blended in with all the other noises on the busy London street—the traffic and music and Friday night chatter. But when he drew nearer, the laughter became clearer, standing out from the rest of the noise. It was familiar, but at the same time, it sounded… strange.

When Harry rounded the corner, he realised why. He had never heard Malfoy laugh—not like this anyway. In the past, any amusement had always been at someone else’s expense. Teasing or scornful. But this was genuine. 

He was standing outside a busy Muggle pub, his blonde hair almost white under the streetlamp. Blaise Zabini was with him—and the years had certainly been kind to him, Harry decided, though he was dressed entirely too smartly for a night on the town in London; long grey coat, designer leather boots, and silk gloves. Some people didn’t change, it would appear.

Malfoy and Zabini were leaning close to each other, their heads ducked in conversation. Malfoy had his hand on Zabini’s arm. Zabini murmured something to him and Malfoy laughed again—why were they standing so close together? Had that always been common practice among Malfoy and his friends? Harry couldn’t recall.

Someone bumped into Harry’s shoulder and he flinched, muttering an apology. He gripped his cane tighter and kept walking, slowing only when he heard Zabini bidding Malfoy goodbye through the heavy thump of music. Harry glanced casually over his shoulder and saw Zabini disappearing into an alley, followed by the distant crack of apparation. 

Harry hesitated to watch Malfoy, waiting for him to do the same. A breeze whisked through the street and Harry shivered. Malfoy pushed his hair back as the wind ruffled it, and tipped his head, exposing the white flesh of his throat. But he didn’t apparate. Instead, he began walking along the pavement, weaving between bunched Muggles queueing for pubs and nightclubs. He was heading in a similar direction to Harry. 

Harry almost considered ignoring him and making his own way home. He could just apparate—he hadn’t had much to drink. His gaze trailed after Malfoy. His stride was light and casual. Not the stiff, reserved demeanour Harry had come to associate with him of late. Harry pushed up his glasses, swallowing. He should really just go home. But…

Cursing his lack of impulse control, Harry ambled across the road, making a taxi slam to a stop. He lifted his hand in apology as the driver yelled at him through the window. He squeezed through the crowds, the stench of beer and perfume filling his nostrils. 

“Hey—Malfoy!” he called as he broke through the throng and rounded the corner, his leg twinging. Malfoy turned around, the confusion on his face slowly morphing into a smile—which he covered up by coughing into his hand.

“Potter!” he said lightly, running his fingers through his hair. His cheeks were flushed—from alcohol, or perhaps the cold. But he was smiling—at Harry, no less—so he likely was fairly drunk. “Were you following me?”

“No.” Harry cleared his throat. “No, I was just heading home.” _Liar, _said a small voice. _You were out looking to get laid. _Well, he wasn’t about to tell Malfoy that.

“So was I.” Malfoy glanced down the street behind him. A few drunk stragglers were stumbling into taxis, but otherwise it was quiet, little more than parked cars and dark-windowed flats. “It’s not far from here. Twenty minute walk maybe.”

“Cool.” Harry buried his hands in his coat pockets, pressing his lips together. “I could, uh, walk you back?” _Oh Merlin. Had those words really just left his mouth? _“I mean, er—only if you want me to. It’s not too far out of my way. Well, I assume it isn’t—and anyway I can just apparate—”

“Sure.”

The word resonated through Harry’s skull for a few moments before he registered it. He felt himself smiling. “Brilliant.” He tapped his fingers on the handle of his cane, looking at the ground. “Er, you lead the way?”

“Right! Yeah.” Malfoy turned around quickly, and Harry limped awkwardly to keep in stride with him.

The silence of the road was filled only by the distant howls of dogs and fading noise from the strip of pubs behind them. Harry cleared his throat a couple of times, but every time he opened his mouth, words escaped him. He couldn’t help but steal glances at Malfoy. He was still wearing that uncanny half-smile. It had never occurred to Harry how much he actually scowled until now. “What are you gawking at, Potter?” he asked suddenly, and Harry’s chest jolted.

“I—” He tore his gaze away. “Nothing. I wasn’t.”

Malfoy was smirking at the ground. He kicked at an empty beer can, the _clank _echoing off the buildings around them. “Yeah you were.” He came to a stop at a wooden gate, beyond which a gravel pathway wound through a grove of trees. He rested his hand on top of the latch. “I can tell when you’re staring at me, you know. I’m not thick.”

Harry’s fist tightened around his cane and he flinched at the sound of a car alarm going off down the road. “I—I really have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said stiffly.

“Yeah you do,” Malfoy said, leaning against the gate. Moonlight peeked through the clouds above, its silver light glancing off his hair. “In the lift at work. Whenever I visit your floor. I don’t mind, you know. It’s…” He rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “Flattering? Is that the right word?” An anxious laugh bubbled from his chest. “I always just wonder why you do it. Most people avoid looking at me.”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Is it appreciative? Or—or not?” Malfoy bit his nails then wrung his hands together, his eyes darting away from Harry’s face. “I just want to know what’s going on in your stupid head, Potter.”

“I don’t know why I stare!” Harry said defensively. “Maybe I just… like looking at you.” The moment the words had left his mouth, he felt his face burning. “No. No, not—not like that.”

Malfoy tapped his fingers on the latch of the wooden gate, his tongue brushing across his lips. “So you find me attractive?” Harry’s eyes followed the path of Malfoy’s hands. He wouldn’t stop touching the back of his neck—or his hair, his face—and Harry fixated on the delicate bones of his fingers and knuckles.

He peeled his gaze away, swallowing. “I didn’t say that.” They both jumped at the sound of footsteps. An elderly Muggle man was treading up the stairs of the flat across the street. He cast them a disgruntled look, as if their presence were a great inconvenience to his evening, before shaking his head and disappearing inside. 

Detaching himself from the wooden gate, Malfoy moved closer to Harry, leaning in to say, “You didn’t have to.” He brushed Harry’s bicep with his knuckles, his eyes low, wandering over Harry like he was assessing him. Harry took an involuntary step away, backing into the fence.

“Malfoy,” he murmured, “how much have you had to drink?”

Malfoy looked up at him, his grey eyes wide and faintly amused. “Far more than I should have, I dare say,” he said with a soft laugh. “Does it matter?” He stepped closer, his eyes trained on Harry’s face. Warmth bloomed in Harry’s groin, but he slipped away from Malfoy, opening the gate.

“I think we should keep moving,” he said thickly, walking down the path towards the trees. About halfway, he realised he didn’t actually know if this was the right direction, but Malfoy followed him without a word. He slowed now, to match Harry’s pace, and Harry’s aching leg thanked him for it. _Why did you offer to walk with him? You could have just offered to side-along him. Or not offered anything in the bloody first place!_

Tiny white blossoms of early spring coated the ground at their feet, scattering in the breeze. The leaves rustled overhead as wind gusted through, and Malfoy hugged himself, shuddering. He brushed his hair out of his face and Harry caught himself staring again. Cursing silently, he looked away. Darkness swallowed the pathway ahead, and he couldn’t tell where the trees ended.

“So what were you doing out tonight, Potter?” Malfoy asked, breaking the heavy silence. “Other than following me, of course.”

“I wasn’t—” Harry cut himself off when he caught Malfoy smirking at him. Scuffing his boots against the gravel, he said, “I was out at the Cauldron with Ron and Hermione, having a drink.”

“Ah, the ever-popular Leaky Cauldron. So, how many autographs did you sign tonight?”

Harry scowled at him, then conceded a sigh. “One—but that’s not why I go there.”

“Is it not? Because the people there flock to you like bees to a pretty flower.” The corner of Malfoy’s mouth turned up.

Harry glared at the path beneath his feet. “Yeah well, funnily enough, I’d just like to have a quiet night with my friends every once in a while.”

“Oh please.” Malfoy rolled his eyes dramatically. “Boohoo, I’m Harry Potter and everyone simply loves me too much!” In the branches above them, an owl gave a low hoot, as if to reinforce the taunt.

“That’s not—” Harry squeezed the handle of his cane. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh you’re absolutely right. I’m rather short on love—or even basic respect, for that matter.”

Harry wiped a hand over his face. “That’s… that’s not what I meant.” He looked up sharply when Malfoy squeezed his arm. He was grinning.

“I’m teasing you, Potter,” he laughed. Harry swallowed, hyper-conscious of his touch. He rubbed his thumb over Harry’s bicep before letting go. “But really, you do need to shut up. There are worse things in the world than being utterly adored by everyone.”

“Not everyone,” Harry muttered, giving Malfoy a deliberate look. Malfoy tilted his head, then clutched onto Harry’s arm with both hands.

“Oh Potter, but I _do _adore you. I swoon at your very feet!”

Harry shoved him off—though rather regretfully. Malfoy never touched him this much. Never touched him at all, for that matter. Harry found he rather liked it. But he still muttered, “Git,” under his breath.

“Oh but really, Potter, you do have my sympathy. It must be terribly exhausting to have everyone bend over backwards for you all the time—and forwards too, I’m assuming.” Harry looked at him sharply, catching the mischievous glint in his eye.

“People don’t do that,” he said quietly. “Not the backwards part anyway.”

“They do, and they always have,” Malfoy said matter-of-factly. “It’s no wonder you don’t notice it. You think I would have gotten away with half the shit you pulled at Hogwarts? Or anyone else for that matter?”

Harry kicked pushed a stone off the pathway with his cane, sending it rustling into the bushes. “Not everyone lets me get away with stuff,” he mumbled.

“Oh really? Like who?”

“Ron and Hermione,” he said. “Robards.”

“Well, Weasley and Granger are your friends. I imagine they’re too tired of you to put up with your shit. And Robards is your boss. He _should _be ordering you around, not giving you handouts.” Harry felt a sudden pang of guilt at the reminder of Robards’ orders to spy on Malfoy.

“So what about you then? What are you doing out?” Harry asked, reaching for a change in subject. “I saw you with Zabini earlier…”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “And you’re still going to try and convince me you weren’t following me?”

“I wasn’t—”

“All right, fine.” Malfoy slowed to a stop, picking at the blossoms on a low-hanging branch. “Well Blaise… I ran into him. Or rather, he ran into me. Very deliberately, in fact.” He pressed his lips together. “First time I’ve seen him in two months, actually.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I’m a prat.” Malfoy swallowed, crushing a handful of blossoms in his fist. “It’s okay, he’s a prat too. Though I should probably write back to Pansy and—” He looked at Harry suddenly, his expression hard. “I don’t want to talk about this. Can we not talk about this?”

“Yeah, er, we don’t have to,” Harry said. Malfoy looked relieved, and kept walking. They reached the end of the path, which led them back onto the street. It was quiet, apart from a few small shops selling tea or pastries or midnight snacks.

They passed a little café with purple wallpaper and Harry caught the familiar scent of coffee he’d come to associate with Malfoy in the mornings. Above, the clouds had darkened, and it began to spit rain. A few people hurried past them, seeking shelter, but Malfoy seemed unbothered. Water caught in his hair, making it glint beneath the streetlamps.

“I’m just around the corner,” he said, and Harry tried not to read too much into the faint twinge of disappointment he felt knowing they’d be parting soon.

“You know, you should come along with us to the Cauldron sometime,” he found himself saying. “Er, for a drink, you know?”

Malfoy laughed. “Oh, no thank you.”

Harry’s heart dropped heavily. “No?”

Malfoy’s smile was somber. “I appreciate the invitation, but frankly, I don’t think your friends would be as willing to extend it. Besides, the Leaky Cauldron doesn’t really agree with me.”

“I’m sure they’d warm up to you if they got to know you,” Harry said persistently.

“People don’t generally warm up to me.”

“Well—I did.” Harry bit his lip when Malfoy’s brows went up.

“You did?”

“I—I mean, yeah. Eventually. Recently, I guess. To be fair, you were a bit of a twat in school, but now…”

“Let’s face it, Potter, I still am a bit of a twat.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say…” Harry broke off when Malfoy stopped outside a green door and turned to face him. “Uh, this you?” he asked, nodding up at the old stone building.

“Yep.”

“It’s nice.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen the inside yet.” _Yet? _“And… to tell you the truth, if I were to join you for drinks, I’d rather it was just the two of us.”

Harry’s heart almost stopped. “What?” he choked out.

“Is that so strange?” Malfoy asked, studying him with light amusement.

“W-well, I—”

“Blaise and I went out for a drink alone.”

“Why didn’t you go home with him then?”

“Why would I?” Malfoy hesitated, then his eyes went wide with realisation. “_Oh. _You think—?”

“I mean, I…” Harry recalled the way Malfoy had put his hand on Zabini’s arm, how Zabini had leaned in so close when Malfoy had laughed. “I presumed you two were close.”

“We are. A bit. But not like that.”

“So you don’t…” Harry cleared his throat. “Fuck around?”

Malfoy snorted, biting his tongue. “I’d say I fuck around a fair bit, but not with him. Besides…” He stepped close—close enough that Harry could see the tiny drops of water that had caught on his eyelashes. “Maybe there’s someone else I wanted to take home tonight.” He ran his hand down Harry’s arm, almost idly, and Harry’s breath caught.

“Malfoy…”

“Do you want to come in, Potter?”

“I… I don’t think I should.”

Malfoy lowered his gaze, chewing his lip. “Not into me then?” His hand was still on Harry’s arm, his thumb smoothing up and down.

Harry’s cheeks burned, something beyond eager coiling in his stomach. “That’s not it—”

“So you are into me?” Malfoy ran his fingers over the buttons on Harry’s shirt. “But you don’t want to sleep with me.”

“You’re drunk,” Harry said weakly.

“So?”

“So I don’t know if you’d be asking me this sober.”

“I might.”

Harry shook his head. “But I don’t know.”

Malfoy hummed and let his hand slide down Harry’s arm before letting go. “It’s okay.” He looked up at him with a smile that made his grey eyes look warm. “Another time, maybe, though I am disappointed, I must admit.” He laughed, biting his lip. “I’ll probably have to find another way to relieve myself now. I was rather expecting you to say yes.”

Harry was silent. His trousers were beginning to feel terribly tight, and he was far too tempted to retract his decision. Fuck, Malfoy looked good, his hair going soft and a little darker in the rain. This close, Harry could smell him too. The sharp burn of alcohol, and sweet apples. His lips were deep pink, and just parted. Harry couldn’t tear his gaze away.

Their breath misted in the cold night air, the still silence broken only by far off sounds of traffic and the quiet patter of rain. Malfoy leaned close and Harry sucked in a sharp breath. “Malfoy, wait—”

Malfoy hushed him, brushing his thumb over Harry’s jaw. “Don’t ruin it,” he whispered, and Harry shut his eyes. He could feel Malfoy’s breath ghosting over his ear. _Oh fuck, this is it. He’s going to kiss me. Draco Malfoy is going to kiss me. But he’s drunk and I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my hands off him if he does—_

Harry shivered when Malfoy’s cold lips touched his cheek, and his whole body went stiff. The kiss was light and brief, but it left his cheek burning. When Malfoy drew away, Harry yearned more than anything to pull him back in.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

By the time Harry realised that was the first time he could recall hearing Malfoy use his first name, he’d already disappeared into his flat.


	8. Ex-Rated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not quite as raunchy as the chapter title may suggest... but Harry does have a good chat with an old friend pertaining to his sex life--specifically, the Draco Malfoy portion of his sex life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a bit out of hand, so it's a good 1k words longer than normal. Hope you all enjoy!

The following week, Harry didn’t see Malfoy much. And it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying. He waited for him by the lifts every morning, hoping to catch a word. But whenever Malfoy saw him, he would duck his head and make a beeline for the lift on the opposite end of the lobby. Harry had tried waiting for him after work, only to be met with similar avoidance techniques. He had even gone so far as to assign himself small errands in Malfoy’s department, but whenever he arrived on level three, Malfoy’s desk would be mysteriously empty.

Harry desperately wanted to talk to him about the other night. So many questions were plaguing him. _Had Malfoy meant any of it? How much had been the alcohol? And why, for the love of Merlin, had he kissed Harry?_ A small, but desperate part of him wanted to feel Malfoy’s lips again. On his cheek and… elsewhere. Mostly, he tried to ignore that part.

But Malfoy’s mission, it seemed, was to dodge Harry as if he were a bludger. By the end of the week, Harry was on the verge of marching straight back to Malfoy’s flat and knocking on the door until Malfoy let him in.

It didn’t help that Harry was still confined to the office. And with Ron out every few hours doing field work, Harry didn’t even have anyone to keep him company in his boredom. Well, no one willing to risk Robards’ wrath for skiving off work to eat chocolate frogs in Harry’s office with him.

Truth be told, Harry hadn’t been seeing much of Ron or Hermione these past few weeks. Ron had been working late more often than normal—and Hermione, even later. Dinners at the Granger-Weasley household had been few and far between. Harry wondered how they even had time for each other these days. Though, judging by their argument the other night, he supposed they didn’t.

And if Harry hadn’t been feeling stir crazy enough, a little extra bad luck came his way one rainy Tuesday afternoon. 

Robards had been insistent on keeping him out of the field until his leg was fully healed—_but really, was that absolutely necessary? _Harry had whined. He didn’t even need his cane anymore, and he was walking just fine, thank you very much. And he had told Robards as much—nagged him, in fact, to the point that he had caved and allowed Harry to supervise one of the training sessions for the new recruits. A small blessing, but a blessing nonetheless.

Well. Until Harry took a particularly nasty stunner to the chest and landed funny on his leg, that was.

After receiving a very stern lecture from Robards about taking proper care of oneself—“because this reckless sort of behaviour is not befitting of a future Head Auror”—Harry was sent home early.

When he trudged through the front door of Grimmauld Place, he was soaking wet, and utterly miserable.

It was a dismal old house. Harry couldn’t quite justify to himself why he hadn’t moved out. He had more than enough gold to buy himself a nice flat—even a small house, for that matter. But he was clinging onto the dump. It made no sense at all. Sirius had loathed the place too. Harry supposed he could only really chalk it up to sentimentality. 

As he limped toward the kitchen, wondering mournfully if he’d have to get his cane back out, Kreacher popped into existence near the front door. “Nasty Potter boy, always leaving messes for poor Kreacher to clean up,” he croaked, scowling at the trail of water Harry had left in his wake.

“What are you still doing here, Kreacher?” Harry asked irritably as he shrugged off his coat. “I told you to take the evenings off.” More to get him out of Harry’s hair than for any charitable reasons.

“Mr. Potter is home early,” Kreacher remarked, and Harry was certain he detected the hint of a sneer on Kreacher’s shrivelled lips. “He is limping again. Hurt his leg, he has. Mr. Potter must learn to be more careful or he will end up killing himself for good.”

_And wouldn’t you just love that? _Harry sighed and tipped the water out of his boots onto the fading green carpet. Kreacher’s nose scrunched up in disapproval. “Just—take the rest of the evening off. I’ll make myself dinner.” When Kreacher simply stood there glaring, Harry snapped, “Go on then, off with you.”

With a huff, Kreacher shuffled past Harry. “What would my poor Mistress say if she saw the way the filthy little half-blood speaks to poor Kreacher? Poor Kreacher. Sworn to serve house Black. Forced to serve the blood traitor Potter. Poor, poor Kreacher…”

Harry rolled his eyes, ignoring his mumbling. He might have pointed out to Kreacher that Harry had offered him clothes more times than he could count—_desperate _to be rid of him—only to be met with cold refusal and mutterings about his sworn service to the noble house Black.

It was barely five o’clock, but food was just about the only thing Harry could think of to distract himself from the ache of lonely boredom in his chest. The house creaked, eerily quiet and empty, as Harry stirred the simmering pot of tomato soup on the stove. Rain thundered against the windows and roof outside, the drone dulling Harry’s thoughts.

He ate alone at the long dining table—it was so long in fact, that Harry wondered sometimes if it had been crafted just to emphasise how alone he was. He could hear Kreacher tottering around in the cellar, but otherwise, the house didn’t stir. He blew on a spoonful of soup before sipping it, the tang hot in his throat.

He couldn’t remember the last dinner he hadn’t eaten alone. Ron and Hermione made time for drinks after work every now and then, but somehow, that felt different from spending time in the comfort of home, just… eating together. Come to think of it, Harry hadn’t even been on a date since getting back from Wales. Maybe that was why he was feeling so pent up. He could do with a good shag.

_Not like you haven’t had the chance, _an unhelpful voice in his brain supplied, and just like that, he was thinking of Malfoy again. It was comical, almost, to picture Malfoy in a setting like this. Eating dinner he’d cooked himself, alone in his flat. _You could have gone in and had a look, _the voice said again, and Harry quickly silenced it.

As the light faded outside, the rain hammered on, accompanied by the occasional distant clap of thunder. Sitting on the edge of his bed, Harry rolled up the leg of his trousers and rubbed a dollop of healing balm into the tender area of his leg—just below the knee. A cooling sensation trickled through the muscle, and he flexed it, relaxing slightly.

After changing out of his Auror robes and into something a little more comfortable, Harry went back down to the kitchen and lit a fire. It hardly warmed to cold dump of a house, but the sound of the crackling flames filled the silence.

He was beginning to consider whether it was worth braving the rain for a pint, when a sharp crack echoed from the fireplace. “Oh, Harry! I was hoping I’d catch you at home.”

Harry leapt back, startled, and stared at the green flames. “Ginny?” She grinned at him, her face gradually solidifying in the fire.

“The one and only. You busy?”

Harry gave his empty kitchen a sorrowful look. “Yes actually. I’m busy entertaining the spiders in the cellar. Quite unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

“So I take it you don’t have time to come and join me at practice? We were thinking of getting drinks after.” There was a hopeful smile on Ginny’s face.

Harry tried not to sound as eager as he felt. “Really? I don’t want to, er, intrude or anything.”

“You won’t be intruding,” Ginny said, her smile growing. “The girls would love to meet you.”

Harry quirked a brow. “They would?”

“Oh come, Harry, who isn’t dying to meet you?” She smirked when Harry scowled at her. “But really. They always talk about you. Valmai especially.” Her mouth turned up at the corner, and Harry couldn’t help but feel he was missing something. “Just Floo over to mine and we’ll head over there.”

Pleased to have an excuse to get out of the house, Harry thanked her hurriedly and apparated upstairs, quickly changing into something warmer. With a wistful glance outside, he decided to pack an umbrella too.

When he stepped out of the fireplace at Ginny’s, she was sitting on the worn yellow sofa, pulling her boots on. Her living room was a mess, Quidditch supplies tossed over the coffee table, and mud tracked into the carpet. Her broomstick was leaning next to the front door. When she saw him, she leapt up and hugged him. “Harry! Merlin, how long has it been? Months?”

Harry grimaced, feeling guilty. “Er, yeah. Sorry about that. Auror stuff, you know.”

“Wales, last I heard. How was that?”

Harry huffed, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Painful and depressing, honestly.”

“Oh dear. Well, at least you’re back.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “And how’s the dating life? Not the same as your job, I hope.” Harry narrowed his eyes, but Ginny was avoiding his gaze now, preoccupying herself with her gloves.

“Dry,” he responded blandly.

Ginny tutted. “Oh Harry. Dry is not how you want it. Don’t worry.” She winked. “I’m sure we can remedy that.” Harry’s suspicions spiked, but he chose not to say anything—for the moment.

They apparated to the nearest portkey station and Ginny took the one to Surrey. Somehow, the rain was even heavier when they stepped outside. “You’re training in England?” Harry asked, squinting through the grey fog of rain.

“We have a game here in a couple of days,” Ginny said, shielding her eyes as they walked toward the pitch. “Gwen likes to get us acclimatised. Because you know, going from Wales to England can be quite the culture shock.”

Harry was grateful for the umbrella when they trudged onto the pitch. The rain bucketed down around him, and he could only just make out the faint green and gold silhouettes of the Harpies team ahead of them. A heavily built woman with dark skin and thick black hair turned as they approached, narrowing her eyes. “Who’s this, Gin?” As they got closer, Harry recognised her as Gwenog Jones—somehow even more intimidating in the flesh. She didn’t quite match him in height, but she struck Harry as the type of person who would have been able to put him in the mud—bad leg or not—and have fun doing it.

“This is Harry, Gwen,” Ginny said, patting Harry on the back. “He’s come to watch our practice today.” A few of the other women lightened at this, whispering to each other through the rain.

Gwenog remained bemused. “What? He spying on us for one of the other teams?”

“Oh Harry wouldn’t do that,” Ginny said, shooting him a wink. “Would you, Harry?”

Harry looked anxiously at Gwenog and shook his head firmly. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“Who’s your team then?” Gwenog asked, crossing her arms.

Harry opened his mouth, but Ginny cut in. “He’s a Cannons supporter. Like my brother.” Harry cringed as she punched his shoulder. “Aren’t you Harry?”

“Er, actually—” Harry cleared his throat, adjusting his grip on the umbrella. “I’m a Harpies supporter. Gotta have your back, right Gin?” He gave her a deliberate look as she frowned dubiously.

Gwenog huffed. “Doesn’t matter either way. It wouldn’t make much of a difference to the Cannons if they knew our tactics.” She smirked, almost cruelly. She was the only one who seemed unbothered by the rain, Harry noticed. While the others were all huddled up and shivering, she stood with her hands on her hips, letting the water crash over her head.

“Well, they’ve actually been doing all right this season,” Harry said boldly. “Er—not that I would know.” He shrunk beneath Gwenog’s stare and muttered a feeble, “Go Harpies.”

Ginny snorted, slapping Harry on the back. “Oh lay off him, Gwen. We practicing or not?”

Gwenog’s gaze softened when it fell on Ginny and she sighed. “Fine. I guess he can stay.” She swung her leg over her broom. “Come on girls, in the air!” There was a collective groan from the group. “And if I hear one complaint about the rain, you’re on the bench for the next month!”

“She can’t bench all of us!” shouted a woman with long dark hair. “This rain is utter shite!” That earned her laughter from the rest of the group and a glare from Gwenog.

Harry sat in the stands with his umbrella tucked against his chest. Rain hammered noisily against it, but somehow, he could still hear Gwenog’s booming voice through the deluge. He cast a couple of warming charms, but his teeth were still chattering by the time the Harpies were jogging off the pitch.

“I’m just going to take a shower,” Ginny said as she ran past Harry, soaked from head-to-toe and splattered with mud. “Then drinks?”

“Sounds good!” Harry called.

“Oh and do you mind if Gwenog and Valmai come along!” Ginny shouted back.

“Er… nope! That’s fine!” He cast a grimace at Gwenog as she jogged last him.

“I’ll try to convince her not to break your legs!” Ginny laughed as she disappeared into the women’s change rooms.

“That would be… much appreciated,” Harry mumbled.

“Harry?”

He turned to see the dark-haired woman who had shouted at Gwenog earlier. “Er… yes.”

She beamed, holding out her hand. “Valmai Morgan.” She shook his hand enthusiastically, and Harry had to wonder how someone covered in that much mud could he in such high spirits. “I hear I’ll be joining you for pints?” Her smile was bright—pretty, even. Harry could see faint freckles scattered across her olive skin.

“Sounds like it,” Harry said, walking beside her towards the change rooms. “You, uh, enjoy practice?”

“Oh, not particularly,” Valmai said, squeezing the water out of her hair. “But don’t tell Gwen I said that.” She winked at him before dashing into the change rooms. “I’ll see you in a bit!”

“Bye…” Harry swallowed as he waved after her.

********

The pub they picked was toasty inside, and Harry felt a little guilty as he trod mud onto the clean wooden floors. If it weren’t a Muggle pub, he would have cast a quick cleaning charm, but instead he just smiled sheepishly at the irritated looking bartender who came to mop it up.

They got a booth near the centre of the room. Ginny and Gwenog took one side, while Valmai sat next to Harry. She smiled at him as she sat down. “So, did _you _enjoy the practice?”

“Oh yeah, it was great,” Harry said. “I had my notebook out the whole time, and I’m visiting Puddlemere headquarters right after this—I’m joking, of course!” he added quickly when Gwenog narrowed her eyes. Ginny and Valmai exchanged an amused look.

The four of them ordered a round of drinks and Harry offered to pay. It was only fair, he told them, since he’d been invited into their top secret practice. Valmai had laughed at that, her shoulder brushing against Harry’s.

Harry sipped his pint and sank back into the cushioned seat as the other three talked about Quidditch. He listened with keen interest, but didn’t have much to contribute. The plays they were talking about were either exclusive Harpie need-to-knows, or just too advanced for his comprehension. Damn. He was a bit rusty.

He sometimes wished he’d stuck with Quidditch after school. But when the Ministry had offered an acceleration on Auror training for both him and Ron, he’d seen no reason not to sign up—especially when he’d seen how excited Ron was. He supposed now he could have gone down the same route as Hermione and declined the Auror offer, taken more time to think about it, and maybe ended up in a field he had a passion for.

Not that he didn’t have a passion for being an Auror… right?

Harry dismissed that thought. It didn’t do well to entertain fantasies when reality was all but set in stone. What was it Ron had said? _His name was basically on the plaque._ He was doomed—no, destined—for the position of Head Auror.

But maybe, in another time, another place, he could have been a professional Quidditch player. Or something else.

“So Harry, you and Gin used to date?”

Harry looked up, blinking as Gwenog’s voice cut through his subconscious. The eyes of the whole table were on him. “Er… yeah. It was a while ago, but yeah. For a bit.”

Gwenog crossed her arms, her eyes flicking to Valmai. “Until you realised you were gay.”

Harry spluttered on the sip of his pint he’d just taken. “Erm—ah, well—”

“Harry’s not gay, Gwen,” Ginny said with a deliberate look at Valmai.

“The Prophet seems to think so,” Gwenog said.

“No offence, Gwen,” Valmai cut in, “but you really believe half the shit the Prophet spews?” Harry cast her a grateful look and she smiled, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

Gwenog laughed, shrugging. “Fair enough. So what then? You like both?” Harry nodded.

“Same as me,” Ginny said casually.

Harry stared at her for a moment, blinking. “Oh.”

“What, you didn’t know?” Ginny asked.

“No. I mean, you never told me.”

“Well you never told me you liked men until we broke up and you started shagging them left right and centre,” Ginny replied, nonchalant. Harry blushed and buried his face in another long chug of his drink. Ginny put her hand on Gwenog’s shoulder. “But yeah. I like women too.”

Harry glanced between the two of them, mouth falling open as the pieces slowly connected. “Oh! The two of you—”

“Yep.” Gwenog threw an arm around Ginny’s shoulders. “Something against me dating your ex, Potter?”

Ginny rolled her eyes and drained her pint. “Harry doesn’t care who I date, Gwen, bugger off. Besides, he’s got plenty of other fish he could fry if he wanted to.” Her mouth twitched with amusement as she looked at Valmai. Harry glanced at Valmai to find that her cheeks had turned pink.

He coughed into his hand, shifting awkwardly. “No, I don’t mind at all. Ginny can date who she wants. It’s just—well, it’s not my business.”

“You think I’m too old for her?” Gwenog asked.

Harry gulped thickly, glancing at Ginny, who was glaring daggers at Gwenog. “Er… no?”

Gwenog scoffed. “Well I am. Far too old. It’s suspicious really. I suspect she’s in it for the money.” Ginny smacked her arm, and for some reason, Harry was reminded very much of Mrs. Weasley.

“I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone just yet though, Harry,” Ginny said, leaning across the table a little. “Especially not Ron. He takes a while to come around with my dating life. Still.”

“Yeah sure,” Harry said. “I get it.” The first time he’d been on a date with a man, he hadn’t told Ron or Hermione for months. Strangely, it occurred to him now, Ginny had been the first one he’d told. It had been easier, somehow.

“So anyone in your life, Harry?” Gwenog asked, and Harry was almost certain her eyes flickered to Valmai.

He tapped the rim of his glass. “Er… no. Not really.”

“No one?” Ginny said, looking surprised. “Not even anything casual?”

“Well, nothing since I got back from Wales…” He cleared his throat, his cheeks heating. “Anyway, why are you so interested in my sex life? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were still into me.”

Ginny snorted while Gwenog shook her head, saying, “Please. She’s moved onto far superior lovers.”

“Not that I’ve ever shagged Harry,” Valmai cut in—with an impressively straight face, “but I have to beg to differ.” She took a sip of her drink, looking smug as her eyes flicked towards him.

“So who are you seeing at the moment, Val?” Ginny said loudly. Harry lifted a brow at her failed attempt at subtlety, giving her a dirty look, but she only glared.

“No one, _Gin_.” Valmai spoke firmly, but her cheeks were red. “You know I don’t date. I only do casual,” she declared, glancing at Harry.

Again, Harry found himself thinking of Malfoy. Had _he _wanted something casual? Had it been a one-off offer? Or… more. The possibilities made his cock stir with interest and he shifted, gulping down a large portion of his drink. _Damn it! Not now!_

Gwenog was nodding agreeably. “The way it should be with men, I say. They’re not very useful apart from their dicks—and to a woman as gay as me, that pretty much renders them useless.” Harry snorted and Gwenog looked at him, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t you agree, Harry?”

Harry lifted his glass. “As someone who is rather fond of men’s dicks, I do have to agree. Hear, hear.”

They all laughed and Ginny offered to order them another round. By the end of the night, Harry was feeling very warm on the inside. He had never been more grateful for a spontaneous Floo call in his life. Though judging by Ginny’s not-so-subtle attempts to set him up with Valmai, Harry suspected it hadn’t been quite so spontaneous.

The rain had stopped by the time he and Ginny left, bidding their goodbyes to the others and making their way toward the nearest Floo. It was chilly out, their shoes splatting against the thick layer of water coating the pavement. Remnants of the downpour flowed into the drains on the street, a cool mist hanging in the air and fogging up the streetlights.

“Oh by the way, Val asked me to give you this,” Ginny said, reaching into her pocket to hand him a slip of paper. “It’s her Floo address.”

“She asked you to give me this, did she?” Harry said, amused. “You didn’t pester her into doing it?”

Ginny just rolled her eyes and went on as if Harry hadn’t spoken. “And you heard her Harry—casual only. I know what a lovebird you can be.” Harry shoved her arm. “I didn’t just invite you here tonight to set you up, you should know,” she went on, her voice going a little quiet. “I actually, uh… well, Gwenog and I only started dating a few weeks ago. And… you’re the first person I’ve told.” She looked at her feet, chewing her lip. It wasn’t often that Harry saw uncertainty in Ginny.

“So… you wanted my approval?” he teased.

“No,” Ginny snapped. “But I needed to tell someone. And you seemed like a safer option than mum or dad.” She grimaced. “Or Ron.” She sighed, scuffing her shoes on the pavement. “So what do you think of her?”

“I think she’s scary,” Harry said slowly, gauging Ginny’s reaction. “Almost as scary as you, even.”

“Impossible,” Ginny said, shoving his arm, but she was smiling.

“So you seem to have a real thing for celebrities,” Harry said, his grin widening when Ginny smacked him again.

“Oh don’t stroke your own cock in public, Harry, it’s indecent. You’re hardly a celebrity. Besides, I think it’s your turn on the chopping block—you going to Floo Val?”

Harry ran a hand through his damp hair. “I…”

“No? I’m surprised. She seemed like your type.”

“She was great,” Harry said, frowning. “I’m just not—I don’t know, I haven’t been into it recently, I guess. The whole dating thing—casual stuff too.”

“Oh bollocks,” Ginny said with a snort. “Your sex drive is limitless—I would know.” Harry flushed hotly. “So go on then, tell me who you’re seeing.”

“I’m not seeing anyone, Gin,” Harry laughed, even as his mind treacherously drifted to Malfoy. “I mean there was…” Ginny’s eyebrows shot up and Harry quickly backtracked. “I mean—no, there’s nothing. No one.”

“Mhm. And does this no one have a name?”

Harry grimaced. “No, because they don’t exist.”

“You sure?” Ginny grinned. “Because you know I don’t judge, Harry, you can tell me about this kind of thing.” It was true, Ginny had never been disparaging about the people he chose to date—post-relationship, that was. Harry seemed to recall her making some rather unkind comments about Cho back at school.

But this was different. This was _Malfoy. _He swallowed and looked at the pavement. “I’m not telling you his name,” he said stubbornly. “Because he doesn’t exist.”

“All right.”

“But.” Harry sighed. “Okay. Let’s pretend this—hypothetical—person were to have, for argument’s sake, made a move on me. And I had—still hypothetically speaking of course—rejected said move. And now this non-existent, completely hypothetical person was avoiding me… how would I go about talking to him again?” Harry coughed. “Hypothetically.”

“Oh, Harry.” Ginny’s smile was surprisingly genuine. “He’s hurt—this hypothetical person. You turned him down—he probably thinks you’re not into him.”

“But I am!” Harry shut his mouth at once._ Oh goodness, had he really just confessed to that?_ “I mean, just sexually—and that’s what he wanted too. It wasn’t anything serious.”

Ginny lifted a brow. “Well, I’d start by telling him—that you want to shag, that is. Make sure you’re on the same page. Just have a normal, human conversation.”

“Yeah well he’s a git and incapable of a normal human conversation,” Harry muttered irritably.

“Did you just say he was a git?”

“No.”

Ginny’s smile was devious. “You only insult people you actually like.”

“Yes,” Harry said stiffly. “I do actually like him—in the sense that I would actually like to get into his pants.” His ridiculously tight pants that always seemed to fit his arse _just _right.

“Well, that much is obvious,” Ginny said dryly. “Nothing else you want from this hypothetical guy? Nothing… more serious?”

“Absolutely not,” Harry snorted. Malfoy was attractive, yes. Harry had given up denying it at this point. He would very much like to fuck him—especially after the stunt he’d pulled the other night. Knowing he wanted to screw Harry too—well, it made the prospect all the more tempting.

But… dating Malfoy. That was an entirely different story. One Harry wasn’t eager to entertain. He could barely stand being alone in a room for five minutes with the guy. There was hardly enough civility between them to string together two sentences, let alone an entire date. No. That wasn’t happening. Completely off the table, where Malfoy was concerned.

But sex? Very much on the table. Or any available surfaces. Harry was just about ready to confess that he _really_ wanted to shag Draco Malfoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter may be slightly delayed, since I'm in the process of rewriting it. Thank you for all the support on this fic! I've been having loads of fun with it. ^_^


	9. Pressing Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Potter's flirting really isn't good for Draco's sanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually managed to finish this chapter a lot more quickly than I thought I would. Hooray!

_I know you’ve been avoiding me, Malfoy. Please owl me._

_-HP_

**—**

_I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume my first letter didn’t reach you. I need to talk to you. Please respond._

_-HP_

**—**

_Okay, no more benefit of the doubt for you, I know you’re just being a prick. Owl me back. And stop avoiding me at the office, it’s immature. I just want to talk._

_-HP_

**—**

_This is getting ridiculous, Malfoy. Stop ignoring me or I’m coming to your stupid flat and knocking the door down. I’ll be in my office on Friday morning. We need to talk about the case if nothing else. Robards is getting pissed at me._

_-HP_

_P.S. The next one will be a howler._

Draco read the series of letters for the tenth time that morning before tucking them back into his desk drawer. Potter was persistent, he would give him that. Draco was fairly certain his threats were idle, but then again, he wasn’t eager to risk having Potter banging on his front door at two in the morning—or worse, his screaming howler attracting the attention of half the floor.

Besides, Draco thought as he got up and pulled on his coat, this was purely in the interest of the case. If Potter so much as mentioned the other night, Draco would hex him and run.

Draco was fairly used to the unpleasant experience of venturing onto Potter’s floor at this point. The looks that came his way were easy enough to ignore. What was not easy to ignore was Weasley, who was standing outside Potter’s office, covered in mud and various cuts and bruises. There was a long tear at the foot of his robes, and he was dabbing his bloody nose with a cloth. Bracing himself, Draco strode over, coming to a stop beside Weasley, who gave him one look before sighing.

“He’s not here.”

Draco peered around Weasley, trying to get a look into Potter’s office, but the blinds were drawn. “Where is he?” he asked.

“Not here,” Weasley repeated stubbornly, pulling the bloody cloth away from his nose. “What do you want?”

“I need to talk to him. He owled me.”

“About what?”

Draco pursed his lips, growing irritated. “The case we’re working on. Not that it’s any of your business.” When Weasley said nothing, Draco crossed his arms. “Any idea when he’ll be back?”

Weasley shrugged. “Dunno, could be hours,” he said unhelpfully.

Draco inhaled and wondered how likely he was to get fired for punching an Auror in the middle of the office. Extremely likely, if he had to guess. “Fine. Just tell him I stopped by when he gets back.” He turned on his heel.

“Oi, Malfoy,” Weasley called, and Draco turned back, sighing. Weasley’s eyes were narrowed. “You gonna tell me what game you’re playing with him?”

Draco rolled his eyes and laughed dryly. “I don’t think Potter needs you playing white knight for him, Weasley.” Though he did his best to remain composed, he had little doubt Potter had told his friends about Draco’s behaviour the other night. Probably had a good laugh about it too. “And don’t make the mistake of assuming I’m getting any joy out of this. I wouldn’t be working on this case if it were up to me, given that I don’t enjoy being in Potter’s general vicinity.” A lie, of course, but one that came easily to him.

“You sure about that?” Weasley asked, quirking a brow. Draco couldn’t help it—he looked away, his eyes sinking to his feet. “Because you were awfully… flirty the other day.”

Draco’s nails dug into his palms as he clenched his fists. “You know what?” he said quietly, a lump in his throat. “Don’t bother telling him I came by.” He turned and walked swiftly back across the room, gritting his teeth as he waited for the lifts. When the doors slid open and Potter emerged, and Draco felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Potter’s robes were soaking wet, but unlike Weasley, he had no visible injuries.

His eyes went wide when they fell on Draco. “Malfoy,” he said abruptly, taking off his rain-speckled glasses and attempting to dry them on his robe. “You got my owl.”

“Owls,” Draco corrected, and the corner of Potter’s mouth twitched. “Yes. But I should really be going now, so if you would excuse me—” He tried to squeeze past but Potter put a hand on his arm. His touch was gentle, but Draco froze as if he’d been struck.

“Actually, I was hoping we could talk.”

“If you want to discuss the case, please owl me. Otherwise—”

“Not just about the case,” Potter said, his fingers tightening around Draco’s arm. He looked around the room before leaning in, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Draco could smell the cool damp of rain from his hair. “I was hoping we could discuss… what happened—”

“Please don’t do this,” Draco said quietly, his desperation creeping into his tone. “Please, Potter. Not here.” He cast a look around the room, feeling naked. Weasley’s stare was icy, his mouth twisted into a grimace. Draco could see his fist closing around his wand. Inhaling, he turned back to Potter. “Look, I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have done… what I did. Or said those things. It was inappropriate.”

Potter looked startled. “No! That’s not at all what—” He broke off as his voice lifted a pitch, clearing his throat. “Maybe… maybe we could talk about it somewhere more private. We could uh… get coffee?” 

Draco blinked in surprise. “Coffee?”

“Yeah.” Potter looked sheepish, his tongue brushing over his lips. Draco followed the path of it before catching himself and looking away quickly. “You drink coffee, don’t you? There were all those cafés near your flat…” Draco’s gaze shot up. Potter’s cheeks had gone red. “I mean, we should meet to discuss the case anyway. We really need to be getting on with it. And it would be easier to work outside the office…”

It was almost endearing to watch him squirm, Draco thought with amusement. “Tomorrow then?” he asked, and Potter’s face lit up.

“Yes! Er, tomorrow is good.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking at the ground instead of at Draco. “Where should we meet? Should I, um…”

“Come to my flat,” Draco said. When Potter’s eyebrows shot up, he quickly added, “I’ll meet you outside.”

“Right. Outside. Sounds good.”

“Oh, and Potter?” Draco said as Potter turned. “Since I’m certain you’re going to run off and prattle about this to Weasley, at least do me the favour of informing him that it was _your _idea and not mine.”

Potter slowly turned back, a frown on his face. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Draco inhaled and composed a look of indifference. “I know what I did the other night was… inappropriate. And probably incredibly amusing to you. But I would still prefer it if it didn’t become idle gossip. My sexuality isn’t—” He cut himself off, his throat tightening in shock. Potter’s expression didn’t change, though he was still frowning. “I just don’t want any rumours reaching the wrong ears.” _The Prophet. My parents. _“It’s not something I like to make public.”

Potter studied him for several long seconds before saying, “I didn’t tell Ron.”

Draco laughed. “I’m not an idiot, Potter. Please don’t treat me like one.”

“Honestly,” Potter said. “I didn’t. I didn’t tell anyone. And I won’t. Not if you don’t want me to. Did… did Ron say something to you?” He glanced over his shoulder, and Weasley quickly pretended to be occupied with his bloody nose again.

“He said that—” Draco swallowed, trying to weigh up the potential outcomes that might result from telling Potter this. “He said I was flirting with you.”

Somehow, Potter looked unsurprised. If anything, he was amused. “And… _were _you flirting with me?”

Draco spluttered. “No! Of course not.”

Potter’s mouth quirked into a smile. “No? Because… because asking me into your flat sort of gave the impression that—”

Draco very nearly hit him. “Not here, Potter!” he hissed, gripping the front of Potter’s robe. Across the room, Weasley tensed, his fist around his wand. But Potter was grinning as if Draco had just offered him his entire Gringotts vault. “I’m serious,” Draco said quietly, letting go of him. “Please. I don’t want people getting the wrong impression—about me. Or… or us.”

“Okay. Fine. But tomorrow…”

“Yes, Potter. I will see you tomorrow—for the _case_.”

Potter grinned. “All right. Look forward to it.”

Draco huffed, turning on his heel with a muttered, “That makes one of us.” Potter’s good-natured laughter followed him into the lift. When Draco reached his desk, he immediately pulled his tin of Soothing Mints from his drawer and swallowed one. _Fuck. _Why had he agreed to coffee—with _Potter? _At this rate, he was going to have to dig into his old stash of Calming Draught.

********

Draco managed to make it through the morning without his Calming Draught, but it was a near thing. As he sat across from Potter in the café, he began to realise that he would probably never be able to get his morning coffee here again. It was tainted now. Tainted by Potter’s stupid bespectacled face, and rat’s nest hair, and green eyes, and toned arms which glowed gold in the sunlight spilling through the large windows…

_No. _Now was not the time for those sorts of thoughts.

Draco distracted himself from Potter’s too-pleased face by scribbling some notes about their case. _Black quill, glass eye, poisoned goblets, memory-loss hat…_

Potter was fiddling with the vase of daisies on their table, picking leaves and petals off the plant and scattering them on his placemat. Draco inhaled and attempted to ignore him. _Searing spyglass, thread of fate, exploding cauldron…_

“So you come here often?”

Draco’s quill pierced the parchment and he sighed, looking up. “Was that supposed to be a pick-up line?”

The corner of Potter’s mouth turned up. “Should it have been?” Draco felt his ears going warm and quickly looked back down. “What are you writing?” Potter asked, leaning across the table.

“I’m working on our case,” Draco said. “Which is what you should be doing too. It’s why we came here.”

“It’s not the only reason we came here,” Potter said with a small smile.

“Correction—it’s not the only reason _you _came here. I only came here to work.”

“Is that why you dressed up?”

Draco dropped his quill and gaped, then looked down self-consciously and adjusted his collar. “I—I always dress like this.” Light green blouse and black trousers. That was normal, wasn’t it?

“It’s very… Muggle,” Potter said, folding his hands under his chin and tilting his head. “For you, anyway. It’s nice.”

“Well—well I have to assimilate. I live in a Muggle area.” Draco’s face was still burning. He hadn’t completely mastered the nuances of Muggle fashion, but he had taken extra care to be conservative with his clothing choices this morning. Potter’s eyes hadn’t left him, and his lips were pressed together, as if to keep from laughing. “Stop staring,” Draco snapped, shrinking slightly “It’s rude.”

“I can’t help it. You’re nice to look at.”

Draco had to bring a hand to his mouth to stop the small noise that almost escaped him. “D-don’t flirt with me,” he stammered, gaze flitting around the café. “Anyone could hear. And—and I don’t like it.” _Is that why your heart is racing so hard?_

“Sorry.” Potter lifted his hands defensively. “Not flirting. Just…” He coughed into his fist. “Admiring.”

“That’s the same as flirting,” Draco said quietly, blushing harder.

“You’re right,” Potter said apologetically. “I’ll stop if you don’t like it.”

“Thank you,” Draco whispered. To his relief, the Muggle who had taken their orders came over at that moment with their drinks.

“Vanilla latte,” she said, placing a mug in front of Draco. “And… the long black.” Her cheeks reddened a little when she caught Potter’s eye, and he grinned unabashedly. Draco rolled his eyes and picked up his quill, chewing on the tip.

“Her telly phone number is under your cup,” he said once the woman had walked away. Potter blinked at him, doe-eyed, before picking up his mug. Sure enough, a small piece of paper was stuck to the saucer underneath. “It’s like a Floo address,” Draco explained. “Muggles use them to communicate.”

“I know what it is,” Potter said with a laugh. He glanced at the front counter, where the Muggle woman was whispering something to her friend.

“Well? Are you going to call her?” Draco demanded.

Potter looked back at him and arched a brow. “Er… probably not?”

“Why not?” Draco asked, crossing his arms indignantly. “You smiled at her.”

Potter snorted. “Yes, I did. It’s called being polite, Malfoy.” Draco scoffed and took a sip from his mug. It was sweet—just as he liked it—but still too hot, and it burned his tongue. “Are you… jealous?” Potter asked suddenly, and Draco almost choked on his mouthful of coffee.

“Jealous?” he echoed. “Why the fuck would I be jealous?”

“Er… I dunno. Stupid question. Don’t worry.” Potter looked embarrassed suddenly, his eyes falling to the table. “So, uh, have Muggles ever given you their numbers?” The change of subject was anything but subtle, but Draco was more than eager to go along with it.

“Once or twice,” he said, blowing on his coffee.

“Women, or…?”

“Are you asking me if I’m gay, Potter?”

Potter spluttered on the sip of his coffee he’d just taken. “Er, I—yeah. I guess I am.”

Draco contemplated for a moment before nodding. “Then yes. I am.”

Potter nodded slowly, clearly trying to look indifferent. “Just men?” He met Draco’s eye as he sipped his coffee.

“Just men.” Draco watched Potter, waiting for a remark about how ironic it was that the only heir to a long line of purebloods probably wasn’t going to reproduce because of his penchant for cock. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

But instead, Potter just nodded, smiling. “Cool. Me too—I mean, I like both. But men. I like men too. A lot.” His eyes trailed over Draco briefly before he cleared his throat, picking up his mug. “So—the case?”

“The case,” Draco said quickly. “Yes.” He handed Potter the list he had been working on. “These are the artefacts we’ll probably be looking for in London. We should start with Borgin and Burkes, of course, and then work our way out to the smaller shops.”

Potter frowned as he studied the list, pushing up his glasses. “This isn’t the list we released to your department.” Draco cleared his throat, shifting in his seat.

“Yes… I know. I’ve been doing some extra digging this past week.”

Potter narrowed his eyes. “Malfoy, you do realise this is top secret information. No one outside of the Auror department is supposed to have access to it.”

Draco scowled. “Well I’m working with the Aurors,” he said defiantly. “And I’m not going to be much use on this case if I don’t have all the facts.”

Potter studied him for several seconds before he sighed. “Fine. But no more of this, got it? You know you’re already on thin ice at the Ministry. Robards would use this sort of thing against you if he found out.”

“You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

Potter grimaced and looked at the table. “No. I won’t.” Draco sagged, relieved. “But I’m not going to stick my neck out for you every time you pull shit like this. Just… follow your orders and stick to the rules.”

Draco scoffed loudly. “You do realise how rich that is coming from _you _of all people, don’t you Potter?”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Yeah, all right. Come on then. What’s our plan of action?”

They discussed potential investigation plans for Borgin and Burkes while they finished their coffees. Potter almost seemed impressed that Draco had already mapped out their approach strategy—_almost _impressed. Draco neglected to mention that gathering information for the case had cost him more than one sleepless night and an entire tin of Soothing Mints. That was not something Potter needed to know.

Once their mugs were drained, Draco paid (against Potter’s insistence) and they walked back to his flat. When they reached the front door, Draco bid Potter goodbye and turned to walk up the steps. He had his hand on the doorknob when Potter called out to him.

“Malfoy—wait.” Draco turned slowly, a lump forming in his throat. “I think we should talk about the other night.” Potter was wringing his hands together.

Draco’s fist tightened around his bag strap. “What about the other night?”

“I think you know what,” Potter said quietly.

Draco swallowed thickly, a voice in his head screaming at him to turn and run inside. Another—more dominant—voice was telling him that he really ought to talk to Potter. Slowly, he descended the steps. “Are you talking about the fact that I invited you back to my flat under the impression that we’d be shagging?” he said boldly. That seemed to catch Potter off guard.

“Er, um—yes. That.” He scratched the back of his neck and cleared his throat, but didn’t say anything.

“So?” Draco urged.

“So… why did you do it?”

Draco shrugged. “I was drunk and horny.”

Potter’s cheeks were pink. “Right. But… would you have done it sober?”

Draco felt a little rush in his stomach. “Would you have declined me if I was sober?”

Potter fidgeted, glancing up the street. “I… I don’t think so.” 

Draco’s heart clenched, but he kept his composure. “I kissed you.” He said it as if it were a confession.

“On the cheek.”

“I would have kissed you on the mouth if you’d let me.”

Potter moved close to him then, so that Draco could smell the dull spice of his cologne and his warmth. “Would you do it right now?”

Draco’s breath caught. He held onto himself, suddenly self-conscious. It was a warm Saturday, and there were plenty of Muggles about, he noticed with a quick glance up the road. Not that it mattered what they thought. But… “No,” he whispered, his voice almost lost in the breeze. He tried not to notice the disappointment on Potter’s face.

“What about another time?”

Draco laughed softly. “Why do you want to kiss me so much?”

Potter flushed, but he was grinning. “I don’t know. Because you’re fit? Because I’m attracted to you?”

Draco scoffed. “That’s weird, Potter.”

“Why is it weird?”

“Because!” Draco laughed at the incredulity of it. “Because you’re Harry Potter. And I’m Draco Malfoy. We—we’re not meant to be—we’re meant to hate each other’s guts.”

“I don’t hate your guts.” Potter smiled at him, looking amusingly innocent. “Do you hate mine?”

“I have no issue with your guts, Potter,” Draco said, coughing into his palm to cover his laughter. “Right, so. You just want to shag me, is that it? No romantic bullshit?”

Potter looked taken aback, and quickly shook his head. “Oh! No, no—not at all.” Draco felt a strange mingle of utter relief and mild disappointment.

“Okay. Good.”

“So… do you want to shag _me_?” Potter looked hopeful, and Draco had to hold back another laugh. It was almost endearing.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Er, you kind of implied it by—you know—asking me if I wanted to fuck.”

“We’ve already established that I was very intoxicated,” Draco said haughtily, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

“But… you fancy me?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I fancy you an idiot, Potter.”

Potter smiled gently. “But…?”

Draco sighed heavily. “All right. Fine. I find you attractive, okay?” He could feel his face growing warm, and he stared at his shoes. “I—I think you’re good looking. With your…” He gave a sweeping indication of Potter’s body. “Your toned arms and your stupid hair—and let me tell you, Potter, the Auror thing is a good look on you. It’s like they made the robes just to fit your idiotic body!”

Potter’s grin was wide. “So you do fancy me?”

“I don’t _fancy _you, Potter,” Draco said, leaning in. “I want to fuck you.” He swallowed, surprised at his own confession. “Well. Since we’ve cleared that up…” He turned and walked back up the steps to his door. “I’ll see you on Monday.” He could hear Potter’s laughter behind him.

“Malfoy…”

“No, Potter. I told you. I’ll see you on Monday.” He dared a glance over his shoulder. Potter was smiling.

“All right. See you on Monday.” His eyes raked appreciatively over Draco, settling very deliberately on his crotch. Face burning, Draco spun around and flicked his wand to unlock his door—Statute of Secrecy be damned—before hurrying inside and slamming it behind him.

Potter wanted to fuck him. Very much, from what Draco gathered. And Draco had told him—had confessed to the same thing. _Fuck. _Not to mention the fact that Potter had noticed Draco’s very obvious… interest. He palmed the front of his trousers and shivered. _Potter wanted to fuck him. Harry bloody Potter wanted to have sex with him!_

It was all too much to process. Draco wondered if maybe he ought to reconsider the Calming Draught. Later, maybe. Right after he took care of the very pressing matter of his arousal.


	10. Charming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does this count as a first date? 🤔

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, sorry for the delay in this chapter! I've been pretty sick this past week. Hope you enjoy ^_^

As an Auror, Harry’s presence was frequently required on Knockturn Alley. A lot of unsavoury types liked to take refuge in the nooks and crannies of the street, and a lot of London’s darker wizarding activities tended to occur in these parts. The place was unpleasant enough during daylight—being here at night was an entirely different level of unsettling.

He and Malfoy received unwelcoming stares as they walked through the street, and Harry suddenly wished he’d thought to wear something a little less attention-grabbing than Auror robes. Malfoy seemed unaware or unbothered by the attention. In fact, he blended in almost perfectly. He wasn’t wearing his work clothes today, but had instead donned robes of sleek black and silver. The colours were a stark complement to his hair, which he had made an effort to keep out of his face, for once. He walked with purpose—like someone who belonged. Harry would never tell him as much, of course. Such an observation was more likely to come across as an insult than a compliment.

But Harry might have pointed out that he really didn’t share Malfoy’s confidence. He felt his skin crawling. The street had always had a stagnant air to it. It wasn’t blooming with life and excitement the way Diagon Alley did. It was stale and cold, and the quiet was chilling. And the darkness only heightened his insecurity, hiding unspeakable horrors. Harry kept a firm hand on his wand.

They turned a corner, and Borgin and Burkes loomed ahead. The Aurors had spent a good portion of their resources trying to charge Mr. Borgin on a number of different counts, but his manner was as slippery as his appearance. Malfoy slowed to a stop and led Harry to a narrow stairway, slipping into the shadows. “All right. I think you’d best stay here while I—”

“You’re joking, right? No. I’m the Auror, I’m going in.”

Malfoy sighed, something beyond irritation flickering across his features. “Yes, I am well aware of who holds the authority on this case, thank you for reminding me. But if we want to get anywhere, you can’t go in there. You’re too obvious.”

“I can handle myself,” Harry said stubbornly.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know that. I’m not questioning your ability to duel. But I should probably remind you that we’re not looking for a fight. This is about discretion. And you’re rather the opposite of discrete in a place like this, Auror Potter, the boy-who-lived-twice.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, then scowled when he couldn’t think of a counter-argument. “Well—what about you? You’re not exactly an anonymous buyer either, Malfoy.”

“The Malfoy name will help me here,” he said, somewhat bitterly. “My family are known for their interest in antiques—especially ones of this sort. I can pretend to be here on behalf of my father.” Harry remembered Robards’ request suddenly. These were not words he ought to repeat if he wanted to prevent Malfoy from facing disciplinary action.

“Okay… and then what?”

Malfoy reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of parchment. “I’ll ask him about the items on the list—_subtly, _Potter,” he added when Harry opened his mouth. “And if he gets tight-lipped, hopefully I’ll have enough time to browse.” He tapped the parchment with his wand. Yellow flames spread outward from the tip without burning the paper, and faded at the corners. He handed it to Harry and it was warm to the touch. “If I’m in trouble, this will ignite.”

“Right.” Harry swallowed, which made Malfoy smile.

“No need to look so worried.”

Harry crumpled the parchment in his hand. “Why would I be worried?”

“Well if something tragic were to befall me, whose arse would you stare at?”

Harry pursed his lips, trying not to smile. “Are you assuming that I don’t have another bloke with a good arse lined up?”

“Potter, there’s _good, _and then there’s me.” Harry huffed out a breath of laughter as Malfoy turned and pulled up his hood, taking the narrow steps down onto the street. He looked back up at Harry briefly. “If I’m not back in thirty minutes, come and find me.”

Harry swallowed. “Malfoy? Be careful all right? If you have to blow your cover to stay safe—”

“Don’t worry, Potter. I was raised a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor. I’m not going to risk my life for the greater good like an idiot.” He smiled easily, then turned and quickly crossed the street.

Harry cast a disillusionment charm on himself, the chilling sensation spilling over him from the head down. He hovered in the stairway and kept a close eye on the shop. Through the window, he caught brief glimpses of Malfoy’s blonde head as he wandered past. Harry pressed himself to the wall as a hunched hag walked past him, muttering to herself. When he looked back up, Malfoy was no longer in sight. _Relax_, Harry urged himself. _He’ll be fine._

Twenty painful minutes passed before Malfoy emerged from the shop. He glanced up and down the street and pulled his hood up before hurrying toward the stairway. Harry dispelled the disillusionment charm when he reached him, and Malfoy jumped. “Merlin! There you are.”

“Well?” Harry asked, looking Malfoy up and down as if he might have successfully managed to swipe a hoard of dark artefacts.

“Well, he wasn’t very eager to talk to me,” Malfoy said, and Harry slumped. “Luckily, I can be rather persuasive.” He winked, and Harry wasn’t sure whether to be concerned or intrigued. “The Malfoy name still gets you far in some circles these days. Courtesy of my father, I suppose.” He mumbled the last bit as he reached into his pocket and took out a rolled-up piece of parchment. “Borgin’s entire inventory, including a few recent shipments.” Malfoy grinned as Harry snatched the list, scanning it.

“How on earth…?”

“Well…” Malfoy tilted his head, looking sheepish. “My methods may not have been… entirely legal.” He cleared his throat, looking at the ground instead of Harry.

“Malfoy!” Harry hissed. “What did you do? You didn’t—”

“Oh nothing of the harmful variety, relax Potter. I was just a little more… charming than usual.”

Harry grit his teeth. “I thought I told you not to try and pull this type of shit anymore. You could get in serious trouble.”

Malfoy looked unconcerned. “Only if you report me.”

“I’d be well within my rights to—I _should_.”

Malfoy ran his tongue over his teeth, and Harry cursed how distracting it was. Git. He was probably doing it on purpose. “But you won’t. Right? Because then you wouldn’t be able to use this information.” Malfoy waved the piece of parchment. “Since it was obtained illegally.”

Harry ran a hand over his face, exasperated. “You’re literally admitting to it!”

Malfoy groaned. “Okay, relax_. _It wasn’t _that_ illegal. Nothing—nothing unforgivable, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Harry clenched his jaw and tipped his head back, sighing. “You’re unbelievable. Now I’m going to be held legally accountable too.”

Malfoy pressed his lips together in a pleased smile. “Is that your way of saying you’re not going to turn me in?”

Harry rolled his eyes, reaching for the parchment. “Just—give me that.” He scanned the items with his finger. “Collection of rings, could be our cursed jewellery—wait, no, these came in months ago.” He chewed his lip as he studied the rest of the items, his hopes slowly dwindling. “None of this is recent enough. There’s no way Borgin got a hold of the artefacts more than a month ago. We located them in Wales just before the Death Eaters escaped with them. And that was only a few weeks ago.”

“Wait, what about this?” Malfoy tapped his finger on the parchment. “Black quills—those only came in last week. They’re on the list, aren’t they?”

Harry frowned and pushed up his glasses. “Yeah… that’s definitely worth checking out. I don’t suppose he mentioned any buyers or sellers?”

“No, unfortunately I could only get so much out of him before—” Malfoy cleared his throat. “Well, never mind all that.”

Harry chose not to think too deeply about what lengths Malfoy may have gone to. “All right, well… we should probably go in and—”

“I think we’ll be able to get more information if we’re patient,” Malfoy interrupted. “As much as you seem to be itching for a fight, Potter. We should stake the place out for the evening, see if anyone interesting turns up. No use barging in. He won’t tell us anything.”

Harry bit his tongue. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. Since you’re clearly in charge now.”

Malfoy smirked and brushed Harry’s arm with his fingertips. “Do you like it when I take charge?”

Harry sucked in a breath and angled himself away. “We’ll discuss that later.” Malfoy bit his lip and laughed quietly, blushing.

“Yes, we will.”

They set up on a slanted rooftop with an angle of the street. Malfoy used a cushioning charm to make their perch more comfortable, and disillusioned both of them. Harry had a very ironic recollection of sixth year, when Malfoy had been the suspicious character entering Borgin and Burkes.

They mostly sat in silence. Harry could hear the distant sound of Muggle traffic some ways off, and the buzz of Diagon Alley nightlife behind them. A few odd folk wandered the street, but no one entered Borgin and Burkes. As the night wore on, Harry began to grow stiff and uncomfortable—not to mention bored. He squirmed and shifted, his arm brushing against Malfoy’s.

“Would you stop wriggling?” Malfoy muttered. His eyes were still fixed on the street. He’d barely moved these past two hours.

“I’m not sure this is worth it,” Harry said, yawning. Malfoy turned, and Harry caught the faint scent of apples from his hair as the wind ruffled it. “It’s getting pretty cold, and—”

“_Focillo_,” Malfoy muttered, and a sudden warmth spread over Harry. Malfoy lifted a brow, tucking his wand away. “Better?”

“Not really.”

“Well I’m not cuddling you, so you can suck it up.”

Harry shifted, tucking his arms under his chin. “You know…” He sighed, shutting his eyes. “I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but—Robards asked me to spy on you.”

Malfoy looked silently ahead, his expression stony. “Figured as much.”

“You knew?”

“Come on.” Malfoy gave him a sardonic smile. “He told me Thornwood called me _smart_. I don’t think she’s said a nice thing about me in her life. And I know Robards isn’t particularly fond of me either. I’m not an idiot.”

Harry grimaced, looking away. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For the way they treat you. Like you’re...”

Malfoy tilted his head. “Like I’m a Death Eater?” Harry fidgeted and said nothing. “So what are you going to tell him then?” Malfoy asked. “That I am indeed still trying to carry out the Dark Lord’s deeds and fulfil his legacy?”

“Funny, I don’t really remember Voldemort trying to flirt with me,” Harry said. He didn’t miss the way Malfoy flinched when he said the name. “Well, I already told Robards to shove it. Multiple times. Not sure he’s expecting much back from me at this point.” He caught a twitch of a smile at the corner of Malfoy’s mouth.

“I suppose you could always just tell him what a great arse I have,” he said quietly.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh yes you would.”

Harry grunted. “Well I don’t stare.” Malfoy was grinning.

“Not subtly, at least.” His eyes strayed to the dark street below and he frowned. “Twelve o’clock,” he murmured, and Harry followed his line of sight. A small woman with a grey cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders was entering Borgin and Burkes. She looked quickly over her shoulder before closing the shop door.

“We should go after her,” Harry said, standing up. He dropped off the roof, muttering a quick cushioning charm to break his fall. His leg twinged a little, but the charm absorbed most of the shock. Malfoy landed silently behind him. Reaching for his wand, Harry stepped out into the street, but Malfoy caught his arm.

“We should wait,” he whispered, eyes flicking around the quiet alley. “We don’t want to blow our cover—and if we scare them, they might destroy any evidence.” 

Scowling, Harry stepped back into the shadows of the alleyway, keeping his eyes fixed on the shop door. Malfoy hovered beside him, his quick breaths audible in the still night. He still had a grasp on Harry’s arm. “You can let go, I’m not going to run off,” Harry muttered.

“Right—sorry.” Malfoy shoved his hands in his pockets, swallowing. Harry kept a hold of his wand beneath his jacket, his fingers twitching.

The woman wasn’t inside the shop for long. When she emerged a couple of minutes later, she was hiding something bulky beneath her cloak, and her hood was pulled up. She walked swiftly through the street, with the air of someone who wished not to be seen. “I’m going after her,” Harry said.

“Wait, Potter—”

“We can’t let her get away,” he hissed, pulling out of Malfoy’s grip and hurrying onto the street. The woman glanced over her shoulder, stiffening when she saw Harry. She walked faster, slipping into an alley. Harry broke into a run, despite the sudden throb in his leg. He heard a crack, and when he rounded the corner, the alley was empty. He shoved his wand back into his pocket, cursing.

Malfoy caught up to him, panting. He grimaced when he found Harry alone. “It’s okay. She probably just got spooked by the uniform,” he said, nodding over Harry’s robes. “Most people don’t come here with the intention of running into Aurors. We should keep waiting and see if—”

“I’ve done enough waiting around tonight,” Harry snapped, pushing past Malfoy and marching towards Borgin and Burkes.

“Potter!” Malfoy hissed, but Harry ignored him. He threw open the door, the bell tinkling softly. Behind the front counter, Mr. Borgin jumped and stood up, bowing low.

“Ah, Auror Potter, what a pleasant—”

“I’m not really in the mood for pleasantries, Borgin. Who was that woman you just sold to?”

Mr. Borgin blinked innocently. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you, Mr. Potter.”

“Oh I’m quite sure you do. She was in here barely a minute ago, and she left with something. So I’m asking you as a member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—what did you sell her?”

Mr. Borgin’s greasy smile faltered. “I cannot breach the confidentiality agreements I have with my buyers,” he said. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, we are just about to close—”

“If you don’t cooperate, you could be facing some very serious charges,” Harry snapped. He lifted his wand, and Mr. Borgin’s eyes went wide, his wrinkled face twisting.

“I haven’t committed any crimes,” he hissed, the polite facade melting away. “You—you’ll get in trouble if you do anything to me! I know how you Aurors are.” Harry’s fist tightened around his wand, but he growled in frustration and lowered it. Mr. Borgin sagged with relief, a smug smile crossing his face.

Harry remained a little longer, trying everything short of physical threats to try and get Mr. Borgin to talk, but he was stubbornly evasive. Eventually, Harry left, but not before making a few malicious promises that made Mr. Borgin shrink behind the counter.

When Harry stepped back onto the street, he caught sight of Malfoy still hovering in the shadows. Fists clenched, Harry marched over to him and shoved his shoulder, making him flinch. “Why weren’t you there to back me up!”

With a weary roll of his eyes, Malfoy sighed and pulled Harry deeper into the alleyway. “Merlin, subtlety truly is lost on you, Potter. One of us needed to keep their senses about them, since you were clearly intent on blowing the entire investigation.

“_I _was conducting the investigation,” Harry snapped. “By interrogating Borgin about the buyer _you _let get away.” It was an unfair accusation and Harry knew it, but his anger was currently more dominant than his logic.

Malfoy, however, remained calm. “So how did your interrogation go?” Gritting his teeth, Harry looked away. “Well, if he had any other buyers coming tonight, he’s probably already let them know not to show their faces—and you’ve put him on his guard. He knows the Ministry is interested in his dealings now. He’ll probably be more careful in the future.”

Groaning, Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t think—”

“No, you seldom do. But it’s all right. He doesn’t know we’re working together—I still have his trust. As far as Borgin’s trust goes, at least. Honestly Potter, you really are lucky to have me, aren’t you?”

Harry felt an awful lot like a petulant child being scolded. “All right, hero, thank you. But you’re forgetting—you’re not an Auror. There’s no way Robards will approve you for anything beyond minor investigations. So you’re not gonna be much use to us.”

Malfoy frowned, his eyes narrowed in thought. “Not unless you can convince Robards I’m worth keeping on.”

“What? You want me to tell him what a fantastic case partner you are?”

Malfoy scoffed. “Oh, Merlin no, that won’t work at all. No—you need to convince him I’m worth spying on. Tell him you think I’m trying to garner dark artefacts for my father or something.”

The grin on Malfoy’s face was far too cheerful in light of what he was suggesting. “No way,” Harry said, staring at him. “I’m not telling Robards you could be a—a dark wizard!”

“Oh, relax Potter,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes. “You won’t be giving him anything concrete. Just enough to convince him I’m worth keeping around. Hopefully long enough for me to get more out of Borgin.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “I don’t like this. What if Robards decides you’re enough of a threat to fire from the Ministry? Or worse, what if he… _arrests _you under suspicion?” Malfoy’s smile dimmed and he bit his tongue.

“He won’t. Okay? You’re going to have to trust me on this. It’ll work.” There was a stubborn determination in Malfoy’s eyes, his jaw set. Harry wiped a hand over his face, sighing.

“Why are you so desperate to do this, Malfoy?”

Malfoy’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I don’t have to explain myself to you, Potter. I just—I need you to trust me on this, all right?” Harry seldom saw true desperation in Malfoy—not these days anyway—but right now, he seemed far from backing down. Sighing, Harry conceded. 

“Fine. Fine—I’ll try and convince Robards you’re worth keeping on. But I’m not laying it on too thick. I don’t want him thinking you’re out to murder me or something.”

“Well, he’d be right in thinking that,” Malfoy said with a smile. “You are incredibly annoying, and anyone would be inclined to murder you after spending more than a few hours in your company.” Harry flipped him off and he grinned. “Well I suppose there isn’t much point staking this place out anymore tonight. Don’t suppose you’d fancy grabbing a drink?”

Harry’s entire mood swivelled, a sudden warm feeling blooming in his chest. “What like—me and you?”

Malfoy made a show of looking around him. “You see anyone else in this alleyway?”

Harry flushed. “No, I just didn’t think that—er, yeah, all right.”

Malfoy smiled and squeezed his arm. He’d made quite a habit of doing that, Harry noticed. “Oh, and for the record, we are going to a Muggle pub. I’d prefer not to be featured in the next article about Harry Potter’s nightly conquests.”

Harry’s blush deepened and he glared. “I don’t have nightly conquests.”

Malfoy hummed, moving his hand up Harry’s arm. When he met Harry’s eye, there was only a faint ring of silver around his dilated pupils. “No? Well, perhaps we can change that tonight.”

“What… what exactly are you saying?” Harry asked, his voice husky.

“I think you know perfectly well what I’m saying.”

Harry exhaled, warmth creeping down the back of his neck. “Right. It’s just… the other day you seemed to regret it. Inviting me to yours, that is. I thought you weren’t—that you didn’t want to—”

Malfoy’s brows went up and he laughed. “Oh, for goodness sake, Potter. It wasn’t that I regretted inviting you in, I was just—I was _embarrassed._” His pale cheeks glowed, even in the darkness of the alleyway. “People don’t usually turn me down.”

Harry was almost tempted to ask _which people? _And not so much because he didn’t believe Malfoy, but more because he wanted to know, suddenly. All the details. All the encounters. What was Malfoy _like_?

Instead, he mumbled, “Well, it was only because you were drunk. I didn’t want to… take advantage.”

Malfoy groaned and rolled his eyes. “Yes, how incredibly noble of you.” Harry scowled. Trust Malfoy to be irritated with him for doing the right thing. “Anyway, I’m not drunk now. So…”

“So we should fuck. Is that what you’re saying?”

For a second, Malfoy actually looked taken aback, amusement warring with horror in his features. “Y-yes,” he said eventually. “Bloody hell, you’re forward. Well—how about this? We get a drink—one drink, since sex and intoxication don’t seem to do it for you—and then… we see what happens.”

A thousand thoughts flooded Harry’s head at once. Images—_brilliant _images—of what might happen. Because at this point, he really wasn’t sure there was any turning back—not for him at least. His trousers were already feeling incredibly tight, and fuck, all they were doing was talking in a dank alley. Throw even just a little alcohol into the mix and Harry wasn’t sure he’d have it in him to turn Malfoy down. He wanted this. And for the first time, he was almost certain Malfoy wanted it too.

“Okay,” Harry said, offering Malfoy his arm. “We see what happens.”


	11. Harry and Draco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't go as smoothly as planned. But hey, when have things between Harry and Draco ever been simple?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter took a while! I wasn't happy with it, so I rewrote the whole thing from scratch, and it ended up being twice as long as it was originally. But anyway, here it is, the moment we've all been waiting for... Hope you enjoy! ;)
> 
> **Warnings:** Brief sexual anxiety/discomfort, non-explicit mention of past sexual assault.

They apparated into a narrow street just outside of Charing Cross. For a moment after they landed, Malfoy kept his grip on Harry’s arm. The warmth of his hand through Harry’s sleeve was enough to momentarily distract him from the buzz of Muggle traffic and flashing city lights. He met Malfoy’s eye and smiled, which seemed to embarrass Malfoy, because his cheeks turned pink and he let go of Harry at once. Harry tried not to feel disappointed.

They hadn’t had the chance to move when a flicker of silver light came darting down the dark street. “I assume that’s for you,” Malfoy said when Ron’s Patronus materialised in front of them.

Harry’s heart plummeted. “_Attack on one of our potions storage units. Robards wants you here now. Urgent.”_

Harry chewed his lip as the terrier dissipated, leaving behind wisps of silver. For several seconds, he didn’t move, staring at the spot where Ron’s Patronus had been.

“Well?” Malfoy cocked a brow. “Shouldn’t you go?”

“Yes…” Harry swallowed. _Urgent. _But he didn’t want to leave. Not now. Not when he was on the cusp of… something, with Malfoy. “M-maybe I could—”

“Potter, go,” Malfoy said with a sigh. “I’m not going to be offended. We can call a rain check on… on whatever this was.” He wasn’t looking Harry in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, and he really meant it. “We will do this again, right? Go for a drink?”

Malfoy shrugged. “If you’d like.” Harry couldn’t tell if Malfoy was disappointed, or just disinterested.

“You do… you do want this, don’t you? This…” Harry pointed between the two of them. “Me and you.”

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair—and Harry mourned the fact that he could have been doing that. That he’d come _this _close to finding out what it felt like to touch Malfoy’s hair. To feel his lips, his mouth, perhaps other parts of him.

“I don’t know, Potter. Maybe this was a bad idea.” Malfoy’s eyes flickered towards the lights of the main road. “Not that I believe in all that Divination nonsense, but… maybe this was a sign. Or an opportunity for an out.”

Harry’s heart twinged unhappily. “You really think so?”

Malfoy wrung his hands together. “I—I don’t know. But you know what we’re like, you and me. Things don’t usually work between us. We—we—”

“Malfoy. Please be honest with me. Do you actually want anything to happen between us?” Harry was afraid to ask the question—afraid of what Malfoy’s answer might be.

Malfoy didn’t meet his eye, his gaze skittering off to the right, his fingers laced together. “I…” He fell silent, looking pained.

Harry chewed his tongue, trying to bury the heavy pit of disappointment. “Okay. Got it. See you at work, I guess.” Before he could apparate though, Malfoy grabbed his wrist.

“Wait, Potter.” He drew Harry towards him, biting his bottom lip until it was dark pink. Harry’s heart stuttered when Malfoy cupped the back of his neck, winding his fingers into Harry’s hair. He leaned in and hesitated a centimetre from Harry’s lips, his breath warm against Harry’s face. “Listen, it’s not that I don’t want this. I just… shit. I’m not very good with words.”

Harry’s breaths were coming in quick bursts. His nerves felt electric—he needed to move closer, needed to _feel _Malfoy before he lost his mind. Swallowing, he cupped Malfoy’s jaw. “May I?” he asked softly.

For a moment, Harry thought Malfoy was going to reject him. To push him away and tell him what a presumptuous wanker he was. But instead, he gave the tiniest inclination of his head, his eyes drifting shut. Harry closed the distance between them, pressing his lips against Malfoy’s. They were icy, and wonderfully soft, and Harry’s senses were flooded by the scent he’d come to associate with Malfoy—warm and masculine, yet somehow sweet at the same time. 

The kiss was rushed and almost a little frantic, Harry’s hand fisting in Malfoy’s hair, his glasses bumping against his nose. He could feel Malfoy’s sharp breaths against his lips, and adrenaline surged through him. When Malfoy opened his mouth, Harry pressed his tongue inside, seeking more of that sweet warmth. Malfoy made a soft noise, squirming beneath Harry—which sent a burst of heat straight to Harry’s groin. 

Then, just when he was beginning to press closer, Malfoy pulled away. “Go on then,” he said, his cheeks pink and his lips pretty and swollen. “I’m sure the Aurors need you.” 

The last thing Harry wanted now was to leave to help the bloody Aurors. Not with Malfoy standing here in front of him like this, looking so beautifully flushed and debauched. Harry tightened his hand on the back of Malfoy’s neck, leaning in a little so that he could feel Malfoy’s breaths against his face. “I don’t want to leave.”

Malfoy’s eyes fell from Harry’s face, a faint smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t be ridiculous, Potter. Go do your bloody job.”

Harry let go of him, squeezing his hand into a fist. “Fine. I’ll see you later?”

“I hope so. You have a lot of explaining to do.” The corner of Malfoy’s lips quirked up and Harry grinned, feeling heady. He apparated in a bit of a daze, and it was a miracle he didn’t splinch himself.

********

“Bloody hell. Next time they partner me with Boot, I’m resigning,” Ron spat, dabbing at the gash on his cheek with a piece of cloth. “I mean, honestly, do the words ‘cover me’ mean nothing to him? How he passed the Auror training is still beyond me…”

Harry glanced around, trying to gauge how difficult it would be to slip away without attracting attention. Most people were heading back to the office, or sitting on the edge of the pavement, getting patched up by the team of Healers that had been called to the site. A disillusionment ward had been set up around the storage unit to prevent unwanted Muggle attention. The street was fairly quiet at this time of night, but the occasional Muggle car rolled past.

The attack on their storage unit had been conducted in an attempt to procure some of the illegal potions the Department had seized last month. Given how easy it had been to apprehend the trespassers, Harry figured it had been a rather amateur operation. He was almost irritated he’d been called in. 

He winced as Angelina patted him on the arm. Looking down, he was surprised to see blood soaking through his sleeve, and quickly put his arm behind his back to hide it. “Heya Harry, good job out there,” she said, beaming. “How many of them did you bag? Three?”

“Two,” he corrected. “And let’s face it, I would have been in St. Mungo’s if you hadn’t had my back.”

“Wonder what that’s like,” Ron muttered, glaring at Terry Boot, who was slapping Williamson on the back with a broad grin plastered on his face.

“Feel good to be back in the field?” Angelina asked Harry. “Leg not giving you too much trouble?”

“No,” Harry said, but it wasn’t the complete truth. His leg had been twinging intermittently all night, but he wasn’t about to admit that within earshot of Robards. “Definitely not missing desk duty. Anyway,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’d best be heading home.” It was well after midnight now. Harry wondered if Malfoy was still awake.

“Blimey Harry!” Ron said, his eyes going wide. “What’s happened to your arm?” Harry grimaced as Ron reached for his wrist. His sleeve had been slashed near the elbow, and there was a deep cut running down his forearm. Droplets of blood fell wet and dark on the pavement.

“Oh. Nothing,” Harry said, trying to hide his arm. “It’s not bad. Didn’t even notice it.”

“You should probably have the Healers take a look at it,” Angelina said, frowning. “Just to be on the safe side, yeah?”

“Er, that’s all right,” Harry said, already inching towards the apparation point. “Think I’ll just head home and take a shower. Sleep it off, you know?” Ron and Angelina were giving him doubtful looks, and Harry tried to smile to alleviate their concerns. “Really, it’s nothing. Good run tonight guys, er, see you tomorrow!” He hurried away before they could protest, carefully avoiding the Healers’ station as he made his way to the apparation point.

He should go home, really. Malfoy wouldn’t be awake this late. And even if he was, Harry had no business knocking on his door at this hour. It was pathetic just to consider doing it. Desperate, even. And a little shameful.

Yet Harry still found himself standing outside the familiar green door, looking up at Malfoy’s building. This was ridiculous. He was still injured. And Malfoy was almost certainly sleeping—Harry couldn’t see any lights on through the windows above. But that didn’t stop him from knocking firmly on the door (loud enough that Malfoy would hear if he was asleep).

He waited almost four minutes (yes, he did count) before Malfoy opened the door. He had definitely been asleep; his hair was mussed and his eyes slightly scrunched against the streetlight. He was in a dressing gown, beneath which Harry could see a pair of grey silk pyjamas. His eyebrows went up when he saw Harry. “Potter,” he said, his voice a little rough with sleep.

Harry grinned sheepishly. “Hey. You look nice.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Oh well, it was true.

“You don’t,” Malfoy retorted, eyeing Harry’s state of dishevelment. But he was blushing. “And I just woke up. Thanks to you.”

“Er, right. Sorry.” Harry glanced over Malfoy’s shoulder. “Can I come in?”

“It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

“I know.”

Malfoy glared, looking Harry up and down. His eyes widened a little when he spotted the gash on Harry’s arm. “Bloody Gryffindor,” he said, turning around. “Come on then, I can’t have you bleeding all over my doorstep.” With a triumphant grin, Harry followed Malfoy inside.

The place wasn’t what he would have expected of Malfoy. Harry couldn’t decide what it was that made it feel so uncharacteristic. Maybe it was the warm colours—pale orange wallpaper, polished wooden floors, a bright green sofa. Or perhaps it was the mess. Although ‘mess’ wasn’t quite the right word for it. It was more like comfortable clutter. Old books and clothes tossed over the furniture, bits of parchment on the coffee table—and even a few houseplants. It was homely. Never a word Harry had thought he’d be using to describe Draco Malfoy.

“Sit down, I’ll go get the dittany,” Malfoy said, and Harry sank into the sofa. The place had a distinct smell; books and wood polish, and of course, coffee. Harry didn’t think he’d ever be able to smell coffee again without thinking of Malfoy.

“Nice place,” Harry said as Malfoy sat beside him with a small bottle in hand. Malfoy grunted in response, his brows furrowed as he took the stopper out of the bottle. Harry wondered if he was capable of accepting a compliment.

“How did this happen?” Malfoy asked, rolling back Harry’s sleeve to expose the cut. It was deeper than Harry had originally thought, and his arm was streaked with blood.

“Diffindo,” Harry said. “It wasn’t that bad.” His words were belied by the sharp wince he let out as Malfoy touched the tender flesh around the wound. He grinned sheepishly when Malfoy raised a brow.

“Idiot.”

Harry laughed quietly, and goosebumps rose on his skin as Malfoy carefully held his arm still. His fingers were cool, and Harry watched his hands as he applied the dittany. They were pale and slender, almost delicate. Harry swallowed and looked at Malfoy’s face. His features had softened a little; he almost looked concerned. “So,” Harry began, clearing his throat, “about earlier—”

“You kissed me.”

Heat blossomed in the pit of Harry’s stomach. “Yeah. I kind of wanted to shag you.”

The only indication that Harry’s words had impacted Malfoy was the pulse of his pale throat. “You still could,” he said, cutting a length of bandage and carefully wrapping it around Harry’s arm.

Harry shifted, grateful that his robes hid his trousers. They were starting to feel tight. “Right now?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

“Isn’t that why you came here?” Malfoy tied off the bandage and put the healing supplies on the coffee table. He met Harry’s eye, and it suddenly occurred to Harry how close they were sitting. Malfoy’s fingers were still resting gently on his arm.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “Maybe. I mostly just wanted to see you.” He ran his fingers over the back of Malfoy’s hand. “What do you want?”

“I want to fuck you, Potter.”

Harry’s next breath came out as more of a stifled groan. He shut his eyes and inhaled. “Shit.”

“I suppose I’m right in assuming you want this too?” Malfoy was smirking, and while normally it might have irked Harry, it was only contributing to his rapidly hardening erection.

“You bloody well know I do,” Harry breathed, gripping Malfoy’s shoulder and leaning in. But Malfoy put a hand on his chest, holding him back.

“Hang on. I think we should establish some ground rules.”

Harry paused, disappointed and more than a little sexually frustrated. “Right. Fair.”

Malfoy sat back, folding his hands in his lap. “First off, I want to make sure we want the same thing here.”

Harry frowned. “You mean… sex?”

“I mean _just _sex.” Malfoy was watching Harry closely, and Harry could tell he was trying to gauge his reaction. “I mean, this is going to be casual. No commitments, no attachments. We’re not _partners._” He almost spat the word. “We’re only shagging.”

“Oh.” Harry found himself hesitating.

“Is that a problem?”

“It’s…” Harry swallowed. It was very difficult to think with Malfoy’s eyes on him. His pupils were wide, and there was a lovely flush to his cheeks. Not to mention how much Harry’s cock was throbbing. Maybe on another day, when he wasn’t aroused out of his mind, he may have pursued the issue further. Yes, he had always been anticipating that were anything to happen between them, it would be a no-strings-attached situation. But now that Malfoy was actually confirming it, Harry found himself halted by uncertainty.

Well, only briefly. His self-control wasn’t winning this battle. “No,” he said at last. “No, it’s not a problem.”

“It’s what I want,” Malfoy said firmly. “I can’t—I don’t do commitment, okay? I never have. It’s not personal.” He studied Harry, tilting his head. “Is this what _you _want?”

Harry could only nod. He lacked the conviction for a proper ‘yes’—or a ‘no’. Right now, his most pressing concern was the one pressing against his zipper. Malfoy looked relieved, and his smile slowly grew again—Merlin, had he always been so_ pretty_?

“Anything else?” Harry asked, shifting eagerly closer. Malfoy seemed to notice, because he smirked.

“No. You can kiss me now.”

“Thank fuck,” Harry breathed, catching Malfoy’s face in both his hands and crushing their lips together for the second time that night. It was just as good as the first—better, even. Malfoy’s mouth was warm now, and his lips parted easily when Harry ran his tongue over them. Harry’s glasses knocked against Malfoy’s face as he pushed closer.

Malfoy sucked in a sharp breath, his body stiffening as Harry palmed his crotch. “Merlin—_fuck, _Potter. You really don’t possess an ounce of patience.”

“Not with you,” Harry said raspily, pushing Malfoy back against the arm of the sofa and climbing on top of him. He took off his glasses and leaned over to put them on the coffee table before pressing into Malfoy and grinding their clothed erections together. Fuck, it felt good to have Malfoy beneath him like this, completely caged by his body, pliant in his arms. Harry pushed aside his pale hair to nibble on his ear. Malfoy shuddered beneath him, his eyes falling closed.

“Kiss my neck,” he whispered.

“You into that?” Harry asked, grinning as he pushed Malfoy’s dressing gown off his shoulder.

“Obviously,” Malfoy said breathlessly. “Or I wouldn’t have asked, would I?”

“You know when you’re a prat it only turns me on more.” Harry sucked on the skin of Malfoy’s neck until a dark blemish formed, and Malfoy whimpered.

“I hoped you’d be like this,” he said faintly, tipping his head back as Harry attached his mouth to his collarbone. “Bloody insatiable animal.”

Harry groaned, the feeling rumbling through his chest. “You’re so fucking pretty.” And he _was_. All clean and smooth and sweet apple-scented—while Harry was still covered in the blood and grime of his evening mission. Somehow, he liked that. He liked that he was here, waking Malfoy up at two in the morning just to shag him on his own sofa. He _loved _that Malfoy was letting him. 

“Fuck, you make me so hard,” Harry growled. “I want to take you apart.”

“Empty words,” Malfoy gasped. “Bloody do it, Potter.”

Harry took that as permission to untie Malfoy’s dressing gown. Malfoy arched into him as he removed it, and Harry groaned. Once it was out of the way, he began to work on the buttons of Malfoy’s pyjama top. But when he tried to pull it off Malfoy’s shoulders, Malfoy caught his wrists. 

“Leave it on,” he said. There was almost a sense of alarm in his tone, as if he was worried Harry might ignore the request. When Harry let go of him, he tucked his left arm against his side and Harry suddenly realised the cause of his hesitation. He tried not to let his eyes stray to Malfoy’s forearm, where he knew he was Marked.

“Mind if I take mine off?” Harry smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

“Oh Potter, I encourage it.” Malfoy helped Harry shuck off his robe, then slapped his hand away when he tried to unbutton his shirt. “I want to do it,” he said. “Take off your trousers.” 

Harry obliged willingly, fumbling with his zipper. He could see the outline of Malfoy’s cock through his silk pyjama bottoms. Pressing down into him, he ground their hips together. Malfoy gasped, his hands falling away from Harry’s buttons. “_Fuck_—just wait, Potter! Let me get your clothes off first, you wanker.”

Harry gave an impatient grunt, bucking his hips into Malfoy until his shirt was gone and he was in nothing but his pants. Malfoy flicked his tongue over his lips and palmed Harry. Harry leaned over him, bracing his arms on the sofa arm above Malfoy’s head. “Fuck—”

“Come on Potter, tell me what you want,” Malfoy whispered, sitting up to brush his lips against Harry’s jaw.

“Your mouth,” Harry groaned, “on my cock.”

Malfoy’s tongue darted over Harry’s ear. “Want to fuck my mouth?”

“_Fuck_.” Harry was grinding shamelessly against Malfoy’s thigh, his cock ridiculously hard. “Yes. Please yes.”

“Okay, Potter, calm down. You’re not going to die if I don’t suck you off.”

“I don’t know, I think I might,” Harry said, but he relaxed when Malfoy slid down the sofa until his face was angled under Harry’s crotch. Harry shuddered as he hooked his cool fingers under the waistband of his pants and slid them over his hips, freeing his cock. “Hey—stop fucking teasing me, you prick,” he groaned as Malfoy flicked his tongue over the head.

“You’re in no position to be handing out orders,” Malfoy said, holding Harry’s hips to keep him still. 

“Says the man who’s under me,” Harry muttered, almost tempted to hold Malfoy still and bury himself in his throat.

“Don’t make the mistake of assuming you’re the one who’s in control.” Harry could hear the smirk on Malfoy’s voice. “Lucky for you, I’ve never had it in me to resist a cock as nice as this.” Harry shivered when Malfoy gripped his cock at the base and swirled his tongue around the head.

“Fuck, yes.” Harry bucked his hips and his cock sank into Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy sucked him and took him deep, until Harry’s cock brushed the back of his throat. “_Oh. _Just like that. Fuck your mouth feels good.” The delicious wet sounds of Malfoy’s mouth were driving Harry insane. He thrust and felt Malfoy’s throat constricting around his cock. “You’re taking me so well. Fuck. Should’ve known you’d be this good at sucking cock.”

Harry thrust into Malfoy’s mouth, and Malfoy paused only once to come up for air before letting Harry sink back in. It was ridiculously hot. Harry was still a little delirious with disbelief. Draco Malfoy was sucking his cock—Christ_, _he was _throat-fucking_ Draco Malfoy! Harry could barely recall the last time he’d received head this good. Hell, he was so far gone he could barely recall much of anything.

It was only when Harry’s thrusts became erratic that Malfoy pulled off. “You prat—I was so fucking close,” Harry groaned, slumping forward. Malfoy crawled up from beneath Harry so that they were level. His lips were swollen and wet, and Harry had to stifle a groan. “Why did you stop?” he said breathily, cupping Malfoy’s face to kiss down his jaw.

“I want reciprocation,” Malfoy said simply, tipping his head to give Harry access to his neck. Harry wasn’t even complaining. It would feel nice to suck Malfoy, he bet. Maybe he could wank himself while he did it. Maybe Malfoy would even let him put his mouth in… in other places. He did have a very nice arse.

“All right,” Harry said with a grin, placing a wet kiss on Malfoy’s jaw. He pushed Malfoy’s knees apart and crawled between them, squashing himself into the limited space of the sofa. He shucked Malfoy’s pyjama bottoms down slowly, savouring the gradual reveal of his pale skin and leaking cock. “You’re bloody gorgeous,” he purred, nuzzling into Malfoy’s groin.

“Fuck, Potter…” Malfoy wound his fingers in Harry’s hair, easing him down until the musk of his precome filled Harry’s senses.

“You’re so needy,” Harry said, shooting Malfoy a grin and receiving a scowl in return. “It’s really fucking hot.”

“Just suck me, you prat.”

Harry was eager to oblige. He squeezed the base of Malfoy’s cock before taking him into his mouth, bobbing his head gently. Harry had never quite mastered the technique of controlling his gag reflex—the few times he’d tried deepthroating, he’d almost had a coughing fit. So he took Malfoy in slowly, and never deeper than the back of his tongue. The technique received no complaints. In fact, with every bob of his head, Malfoy’s fist tightened in his hair and his breaths grew more ragged.

“Yes Potter, that’s so good. Just like that…”

A groan vibrated in Harry’s throat and he wrapped his free hand around his own cock, bucking into his fist. When Malfoy’s cock was slick with saliva and precome, Harry wet his fingers and dipped lower, tracing the edge of Malfoy’s crack. He noticed the change at once.

Malfoy went rigid and his breath seized sharply. He sat up and caught Harry’s hand, pulling it away from his arse. “Wait, Potter—stop.”

Harry sat up, taken aback by the hint of panic in Malfoy’s tone. “I’m sorry—did I do something wrong?”

Malfoy’s expression was taut, his brows drawn together. Running a hand through his hair, he shook his head. “N-no. But… I’m sorry, I don’t do… I don’t do that.”

Harry frowned. “Sorry, I’m not following. Don’t do…?”

“Anal,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth. “I don’t do anal.”

“Oh.” Harry blinked, then realisation struck him like a cold knife. “_Oh._” He swallowed, feeling guilty. Malfoy’s eyes were lowered, a pinched look on his face. The haunted expression was so familiar to the one Harry saw in his nightmares sometimes. All at once, the nasty memories came flooding back. “Is it because of—”

“If it’s a dealbreaker, I get it,” Malfoy said sharply, cutting Harry off. “It wouldn’t be the first time, and I don’t want you doing me any favours.”

“No!” Harry said, too quickly. “No, it’s not a dealbreaker. Fuck, I want you so much. You don’t even know.”

“But you want to fuck me.”

“Not if you don’t want it,” Harry said, taking Malfoy’s hands in his own. “There are plenty of other ways we can make each other feel good… if you’re okay with that.” Harry felt uncertain of himself suddenly. How much of this was Malfoy actually comfortable with? Had Harry hurt him before?

But at Harry’s words, Malfoy seemed to relax. He pulled Harry on top of him again, their cocks sliding together in a way that made Harry shiver. “I’m sorry. I should have said something sooner.”

“No, it’s okay. I should have asked.”

Malfoy shook his head. “I wouldn’t have expected you to. But it would have been a good idea to discuss things more before we started…”

“Rutting like animals?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I think you were the only one behaving like an animal, but I’ll let it slide.”

“Malfoy… are you sure this is okay?” Harry hated to dampen the mood, but he felt like an idiot for not realising sooner that Malfoy had plenty of reason to be put off by sex.

Malfoy sighed, looking irritated. “Potter. Please don’t presume to know what I need. If I’m uncomfortable with something, I’ll tell you about it. But—” He sucked in a sharp breath as he broke off. “Don’t you dare treat me like a fragile fucking flower. I like sex, all right? And—and I shouldn’t have to justify that to you.” There was a challenge in his eyes, and Harry could tell he was ready to argue the point if he needed to.

“Okay,” Harry said hesitantly. “I understand. I just… I know what you’ve been through—”

Malfoy snatched his wrists and leaned close, his jaw trembling. “Don’t. Just don’t. Not now, Potter. Look at me. I’m hard. I fucking want you. I want you to make me come, and I want to make you come. Can’t we just leave it at that?”

Inhaling deeply, Harry pushed aside all thoughts of Malfoy’s history and nodded. “Okay. Yes.”

Breathing out, Malfoy let go of Harry’s wrists and looped a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss, deep and warm. When Harry drew back, Malfoy wrapped his legs around Harry’s waist and ground against him, his mouth falling open.

“Come on my chest,” Malfoy gasped, hurriedly unbuttoning his shirt and tweaking one of his nipples.

“Fuck—” Harry froze when he caught sight of Malfoy’s naked chest. Thin, but long slashes of pink scar tissue marred his pale skin. “You… you have scars.” A tight knot of horror was forming in his chest. “Those are from—”

Malfoy looked irritated again, drawing his shirt closed again. “Yeah. They’re from you. So what? It was ages ago.”

“I—I never knew. Do they hurt?” Harry had the urge to pull Malfoy’s shirt open again. To touch the delicate skin beneath as if he could fix his mistake, undo the damage.

“Not really. They used to. But I haven’t noticed them for years.” Malfoy fidgeted impatiently, inching closer to Harry. “So now that we’ve relived the happy traumas from my past, will you make me come? I’m not going to stay hard forever, you know.”

The reminder of their shared arousal was almost enough to make Harry forget the scars. Almost enough. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, staring at Malfoy’s chest. “For hurting you. I don’t think I ever said that.”

Malfoy sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah well, let’s face it, I deserved it. But if you really feel guilty, you can make it up to me by finishing me off before I bloody implode.” Malfoy sat up and pressed himself into Harry, wrapping his fists around their cocks and jerking them together.

“Mm—fuck, all right,” Harry grunted against Malfoy’s mouth as he kissed him. “Can I still come on you?” He felt a little guilty asking. Was it fucked up that he wanted to mark Malfoy after what he’d just seen? Maybe. But he was too far gone to argue with his instincts.

“Yes,” Malfoy breathed, tipping his head back to give Harry access to his slender throat. “Fuck, please Potter.” Harry latched onto Malfoy’s neck with his teeth and pushed him back into the sofa cushions, thrusting into his fist until he was spurting his seed across Malfoy’s exposed stomach.

“Oh, Christ,” Harry gasped, clinging tightly to Malfoy’s arms as pleasure rippled through him.

“_Harry_,” Malfoy whined, coming over his own fist, and the sound of his name—spoken like _that_—made Harry’s head spin. He dragged Malfoy into a sloppy kiss, burying himself in his arms and settling against his chest as their aftershocks faded.

He pressed his face into Malfoy’s neck and breathed him in, dotting lazy kisses down his collarbone. “Well, that was nice.” _He fucking called you Harry! _said a triumphant voice that Harry ignored.

“Getting off is always nice,” Malfoy said, “so get off, Potter, you’re heavy.”

Harry hid a smile, rolling over to let Malfoy off the sofa. He watched as Malfoy searched for his pants, admiring the smooth curve of his arse and his long legs. “Can we do this again?” he blurted without thinking.

Malfoy raised a brow as he tugged on his pants. “I don’t see why not.” Harry sank back into the cushions, grinning with heady relief.

“Yeah? You enjoy it?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You’re a good shag, Potter.”

“So are you. Bloody brilliant.” Malfoy turned away, but not before Harry caught sight of his blush. He sat up and put his glasses back on, searching the floor for his clothes. “Well, I suppose I’ll be going now.”

“Oh.” Malfoy looked oddly disappointed. “You don’t have to. It’s almost three.”

Harry smiled, hopeful. “You want me to stay?”

“I don’t care,” Malfoy said abruptly. “But you can.”

Harry’s grin was wide. “All right.”

“I’m going to have a bath,” Malfoy said, straightening his dressing gown. “My Room is upstairs in the loft. I sleep on the left. If you get into my personal space, I’ll hex you in your sleep.”

Harry was more than surprised that Malfoy was suggesting they share the bed—instead of just quarantining Harry to the sofa. He felt a little giddy with excitement—_he was going to be sleeping in the same bed as Draco! _Oh, wow. So he was Draco now, it seemed. “Cool. Stay on the right. Got it.”

“Right.” Draco nodded, looking awkward. “Goodnight, Potter.”

“Night.” Harry watched him walk away then called out. “Draco.”

He spun, looking startled. “Y-yes?”

“I like it when you call me Harry, you know.”

Draco frowned and nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll keep that in mind, Potter.”

Harry laughed and watched him walk away. Yes, he thought, he was definitely Draco now. And really, at this point, there was probably no going back.

**-End of part 1-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since part 1 is over, the next chapter will probably take a couple of weeks to get out. I'd like to have a bit more written before I start posting for part 2. Thanks for your patience! :)


	12. In the early hours of the morning...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a month since Harry and Draco started sleeping together. And things are going great.... mostly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, sorry it's been so long since I've updated. I wanted to get part 2 finished before I started posting it, but writing has been slow, so I'm still not quite there (and I've been working on another project alongside this). Updates will probably still be slow from here, but I figured I'd rather post once a month than wait five months just so I can weekly update.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> **Warning:** Reference to past sexual assault, nightmares, minor panic attacks, and forcing oneself to perform unwanted sexual acts (very brief)

Draco woke up with a sharp jolt, gulping in breaths of air as his throat constricted. He tried to sit up, but someone’s arm was around his chest. He twisted around, then slumped back into bed when he realised it was just Potter, who was fast asleep behind him. Draco shut his eyes and wriggled back against Potter’s chest, closing the distance between them.

There was a phantom ache between his legs, and his skin felt overly-sensitive. If he shut his eyes, he could see flashes—_the classroom desk beneath him, sickening grunts behind him, his own blood, and so much pain—_so he kept them open, staring out into the darkness of Potter’s room.

Which was rather a dingy place, truth be told. Draco always had the urge to start tidying whenever he came over here. Peeling wallpaper and spots of damp—and an obnoxious amount of clutter; books and trinkets and Quidditch supplies. Potter certainly was sentimental, if nothing else. Even the sheets felt well-used, though Potter had assured him they were cleaned every week. But Draco did sometimes wonder just how many people had shared Potter’s bed before him. If they still shared it now. After all, it wasn’t as if they had put any limitations on this… whatever this was.

But Draco savoured these moments. In the month that he and Potter had been shagging, he’d woken up almost every night to the memories of his own screams. And Potter had been there every time, fast asleep, and just warm enough for Draco to know who he was with. Because that was just Potter, wasn’t it? Warmth and that energetic spark that hinted at the powerful magic beneath the surface.

Draco leaned his head back, resting it against Potter’s shoulder. His hair tickled Draco’s ear and he turned his face to breathe Potter in. He smelled leathery, and his soft, messy hair carried the scent of coconut.

Potter stirred suddenly, and Draco went tense. He stole these moments when he could, but he never stayed long, fearful of Potter waking. He liked seeing his face in sleep sometimes, no scowls or self-satisfied grins. He was peaceful. Sometimes, Draco would brush his fingers over Potter’s skin, just to savour its warmth before he had to leave. His stubbled chin was rough beneath Draco’s fingertips, and his arms were smooth with dark hairs, but firm.

Draco still marvelled the fact that Potter was shagging him sometimes. It wasn’t as if he had a low opinion of his own appearance—but Merlin, this was Harry bloody Potter. He could have had half of London in his bed based on looks alone if he’d wanted, never mind what a good fucking shag he was.

Not that Draco would ever admit any of this to Potter’s face, the bastard was cocky enough as it was. So full of himself, in fact, that when they shagged at Draco’s place, he would wait until Draco was up before leaving the morning after. As if he just presumed his company was wanted. Once, he’d even insisted they have breakfast together. Preposterous.

Draco usually spent the night at Potter’s if they were up late. But he always made sure to leave before Potter woke up. Waking up together was too intimate, too domestic, and Draco did not care for that. _No commitment, _he reminded himself. _No attachment. _He couldn’t very well go breaking his own rules.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t spend these quiet hours of the early morning—long before Potter would haul himself out of bed—to lie with Potter’s warm presence against his back, and just for a few minutes, forget about his nightmares.

********

Draco and Potter didn’t speak much at work, unless they had business relating to their case. But truthfully, the investigation had gone rather stale. They had managed to acquire the inventories of a few more magical antique shops around London, but hadn’t been able to turn up any new evidence. And since Potter had recovered from his leg injury, he’d returned to the field, so Draco didn’t see him very often. Unless he was waltzing through the bullpen flaunting a fresh gash or bruise, sometimes tossing Draco a maddening grin.

As if Draco was meant to find it _sexy _or something. Which he didn’t. Not in the least.

Draco felt guilty, sometimes, about ignoring Potter at work. It was just… the idiot could be so _painfully _obvious sometimes. He’d grin at Draco when he saw him across the atrium, try to talk to him in the lifts, make visits downstairs just to chat to him—Merlin, once he’d even tried to _hug _him. That had earned him a very strategically placed zap with Draco’s wand, and he’d since learned that any sort of physical affection at work was _sorely _unwelcome.

Draco had been the one to insist upon secrecy. He got the sense Potter didn’t like it, but then, the stakes weren’t as high for Potter. One nasty rumour that Draco Malfoy was bent and shagging Harry Potter, and his job got a lot more unpleasant—if they let him keep it, that was. Although Potter wasn’t directly his superior, he was a superior officer within the Ministry, and working with Draco, and frankly, that would probably be enough for Internal Affairs. Potter would receive a slap on the wrist, and Draco would receive a harrowing—from his co-workers, if not from the Department itself.

So no, Potter, _hugging _was most certainly not permitted within the workplace, and neither was any other sort of affection, communication, or eye contact that extended beyond what was normal of a professional working relationship.

It was a rainy Thursday afternoon when Potter stepped out of the lift on Draco’s floor, soaked from head to toe. He attracted a few odd looks and quiet giggles as he strode across the room, grinning far too broadly for someone who looked like an utter twit. And, to Draco’s dismay, he stopped right next to his desk.

“Potter,” Draco said without looking up from his paperwork. “You’re dripping water on the carpet.”

“Oh.” Potter looked down at himself, clearly unbothered. “So I am.” 

“What do you want?” Draco asked flatly. Across his desk, he could see Smith glancing between him and Potter suspiciously. “I’m rather busy, as I’m sure you can tell.”

“Well, I was actually hoping I could have a word.” Potter took off his glasses, attempting to wipe them dry on his sopping robe and failing miserably. “It’s about… the case,” he added, when Draco gave him a quizzical look.

“Go on then, have your word,” Draco said with an impatient flick of his wrist.

“I’d rather speak in private, actually,” Potter said, eyeing Smith, who was observing them very keenly from the other side of Draco’s desk. “It’s very confidential.”

Draco sighed and placed his quill carefully on his desk. “Very well.” Potter followed him to the men’s bathroom, his shoes squelching wetly with every step. When the bathroom door was shut behind them, Draco checked all the cubicles to make sure they were alone before turning on Potter. “So?”

His gasp of surprise was muffled by Potter’s mouth, his lips cold and damp. Draco let the kiss linger for only a moment before he shoved Potter away. “What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed, shivering as the wet from where Potter’s hands had been on his shoulders seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Potter grinned and ran a hand through his messy wet locks, and Draco wanted very much to slap him. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Sort of been thinking about doing that all day.”

“Well—don’t!” Draco snapped, his face hot. “It’s inappropriate. We’re at work for fuck’s sake.”

“There’s no one here. We’re alone.”

“But someone could walk in and—”

“Would that be so bad?” When Draco gaped at him, Potter’s smile fell and he looked at the floor. A small pool of water had collected around his boots. “I… I know we’re not—well, _together. _But that doesn’t mean people don’t have to know.”

“I’ve explained this already, Potter,” Draco said shortly. “I don’t want them to know. This is private. It hasn’t got anything to do with them.” When Potter looked miffed, Draco sighed. “Look, I’m not ashamed, all right? But you know what this could do to my career.”

Potter chewed his lip. “It’s not as bad as you think. I know plenty of people here who have relationships with co-workers—hell, even their superiors. It’s not against code.”

“But those people aren’t me,” Draco said quietly. “And I’m… I’m not exactly out.” He could feel his face going red. _Damn Potter. _He wished he could just melt into the tiles and not have this conversation. “My parents don’t know. Th-that I’m gay. And—and it’s not about them anyway. I just want this to be… my thing.” He looked down, not wanting to see the look on Potter’s face. “So there,” he said petulantly, trying to squeeze past Potter to get to the door.

“Wait, I—I’m sorry,” Potter said, grabbing his arm. “I get it. I mean—I’m not really out either. But… everyone knows. I’m not really subtle about it. And the Prophet has had a thing or two to say—”

“I just—I want this to be between us. Only us.” Potter was massaging Draco’s wrist unconsciously, and Draco squirmed in his grip. “I like it, what we’ve been doing.” A lump formed in his throat, and he looked down, coughing. “But if people start talking about it, then it stops being nice. It becomes a spectacle. _Harry Potter crosses over to the dark side _and all that.” Potter looked like he was trying to hide a smirk.

“Well, if this is the dark side, I intend to stay a while.” He moved close enough for Draco to feel his breaths against his face. “Are you coming over tonight?” he asked huskily.

“I’m—”

The bathroom door flew open and Draco jumped away from Potter as if he’d hexed him. Smith waltzed in, looking smug. “What do you want?” Draco snapped. “We’re having a confidential discussion.”

“It’s the men’s bathroom,” Smith said snidely. “I can be here if I want.” Draco grit his teeth. It was times like these that he was reminded of how much he truly hated Smith.

“Well, I should er—” Potter cleared his throat. “I should probably get changed out of these clothes.”

“Do,” Draco said flatly. “You look like a drowned crup.”

Potter adjusted his glasses, his thick brows furrowed. “Right then. Well, see you toni—tomorrow.” Smith arched an eyebrow, and Draco bit his tongue, hoping he hadn’t noticed Potter’s slip.

“I suppose it’s inevitable.”

“I’ll memo you about the—about the case,” Potter added hastily, his eyes flicking to Smith.

“If you must.”

Potter nodded stiffly. “See you later then.” He left swiftly, a trail of water following him. Draco pushed past a disgruntled looking Smith and turned on the sink, washing his hands. He could still feel the cold traces of Potter’s lips against his own.

“You should be careful, you know,” Smith said. Draco could see his reflection over his shoulder in the mirror; his nose was scrunched into a sneer. “Potter knows a scumbag Death Eater when he sees one. He’s probably got a cell lined up for you in Azkaban already.”

Draco turned off the sink and looked at his reflection, brushing a pale strand of hair behind his ear. It fell stubbornly back into his eyes. “Did someone flush the toilet?” he said, letting his eyes drag over Smith indifferently as he walked to the door. “I thought I heard something.” The brief glimpse of Smith’s confusion slowly morphing to outrage was deeply satisfying.

********

It was silly, really, but Draco was still embarrassed that he and Potter hadn’t… well, fucked. Sure, they’d done just about everything short of it, but never—never _that_. Potter didn’t seem to mind the consistent oral, handjobs, frotting, snogging—he didn’t seem to mind at all.

But Draco had yet to dispel the nagging sense of guilt that had been eating at his insides this past month. Surely Potter must want more. He was probably accustomed to his lovers gleefully spreading their legs for him—and Draco wished he could do the same. The thought of Potter fucking him was tantalising. It made him heady, and the thought had fuelled a good few of his wank sessions already.

But it was just a thought.

Draco still couldn’t get more than one finger inside himself without having a fucking panic attack. He could barely fathom being able to fit Potter’s generously sized cock inside him. 

And it _frustrated _him more than anything. He wanted this. He wanted it so much. And he resented himself for being unable to do it.

“Hey, you okay?”

Potter’s soft voice interrupted Draco’s reverie. He adjusted himself in Potter’s lap, pinning Potter’s hands against the wall behind the bed. “Perfectly fine,” he said with an easy smirk. Potter’s hair was a mess, spread over his pillow and forehead. Leaning down, Draco trailed a line of kisses over his chest, breathing him in. He let go of Potter’s hands to rub his thumbs over his nipples, brushing his fingers through the dark hairs on Potter’s chest.

Potter exhaled, tipping his head back. “Feels so good having your hands on me. I love it. Love it when you touch me.” He rocked his hips, their cocks brushing together, and Draco moaned softly.

“Well, how about you return the favour?” he said, guiding Potter’s hands to his hips. His shirt hung open, and Potter reached up to tweak one of his nipples, sliding his palm down Draco’s chest. He hesitated over the long, pink gashes, left by his own spell. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and Draco sighed, taking hold of his wrist. “Yes. I’m gorgeous. But I’d appreciate it more if you put this hand to use instead of gaping like an idiot.” He moved Potter’s hand to his cock, which was leaking steadily between them.

Potter held his eye as he slid his hand down his cock, his lips just parted and deep pink. Draco clutched his shoulders, rocking in his lap. “The fact that you’re this good at wanking me is a statement in itself,” he breathed, leaning forward to catch Potter’s mouth in a kiss.

“Much practice.” Potter grinned against his mouth and squeezed him gently, making Draco groan.

“I—I want to try something,” Draco said suddenly. Potter tilted his head, massaging the head of Draco’s cock. Swallowing, Draco took his other hand and guided it to his arse. Potter’s eyes went wide and he froze.

“Draco…” He chewed his lip, and Draco hated that tone of voice—and the fact that he’d used his first name. He’d been doing that far too much recently. “You don’t have to force yourself to do this just for me. I’m happy with what we’ve been doing.”

“It’s not for you,” Draco snapped, then immediately felt guilty when he saw the hurt in Potter’s face. “I want to do it for me,” he said with a sigh. “I _need _to do it.” He scowled at the look on Potter’s face. “Don’t look at me that way. Don’t fucking _pity _me.” He spoke firmly, but there was a tightness in his throat.

Potter knew exactly why this was a problem for him. He was _thinking _about it right now—thinking about that night—and Draco hated it. He hated that he’d been reduced to little more than a pathetic victim in Potter’s mind.

“I’m not pitying you,” Potter said slowly. “I just—are you sure you want to do this?”

“Of course I’m fucking sure!”

“Draco…”

“Stop calling me that. I’m not your friend.” That made Potter flinch, but when he spoke, his voice was gentle.

“I want you to be comfortable,” he said calmly. “I don’t want you to push yourself into something you’re not ready for.”

“I am ready,” Draco insisted. “I’ve—I’ve been practicing.” With limited success, granted, but Potter didn’t need to know that. And if the interested glint in his eyes was anything to go by, Draco had chosen his words well. Potter coughed into his hand, dropping his gaze briefly.

“You’ve been—?” His hand tightened on Draco’s arse, just fractionally. “With… with your fingers?”

“I have a toy too,” Draco said, a little embarrassed at the confession. Potter’s face lit up keenly, his jaw flexing. “I… haven’t used it much, though.” _Once, and it was a fucking disaster. _“But it’ll be easier with you,” he said, running his hands down Potter’s chest. “I want this, Potter. Please just—let me try.”

Potter watched him cautiously, but he wasn’t doing a very good job at hiding his eagerness. “Okay,” he said, caressing Draco’s hip. “But we go slowly, all right?” 

Draco nodded, his heart thrumming excitedly. He steeled himself as Potter fumbled a tub of lube out of his bedside drawer. He slicked up his fingers then sat up, pulling Draco tighter to his body. Draco shivered at the first brush of his cold fingers against his crack. “All right?” Potter asked, hesitating.

“You’ve barely even touched me, don’t fucking stop.”

Potter pursed his lips, but did as told. He circled Draco’s rim with one of his fingers, moving very slowly. Draco tried not to tense. He kept his eyes defiantly open, afraid of what he might see if he closed them. He clung to Potter’s shoulders and leaned against his chest, breathing in his leathery scent. His body was warm. _Remember who you’re with. It’s just Potter. It’s okay._

When Potter slipped his finger inside, a whimper escaped Draco’s throat, his chest seizing. “You’re too tense,” Potter said quietly, pulling his finger out.

“No, it’s fine. I’m just—”

“You’re not enjoying this,” Potter said, and his voice was so gentle, it was frustrating. “You don’t have to force yourself to—”

“I want to be able to do this.” Draco’s throat felt tight. _No, he couldn’t give up. Not so soon. _“I… I have to—”

“But you can’t!” Draco startled as Potter pushed him off, turning to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m not doing this. You’re not being fair. I’m not going to sit here and let you use me so you can hurt yourself.” He picked his sweatpants off the floor and tugged them on. “It’s supposed to be good for both of us.”

“But how can it be good when I can’t—when you can’t even fuck me properly!”

Potter paused midway through lifting his glasses to his face. “Properly—what are you on about?”

“I’m gay, Potter. That kind of entails being able to take a cock up my arse.”

Potter ran a hand over his face, then clenched it into a fist, looking incredulous. “No. No it doesn’t. It doesn’t mean that at all!” He sat next to Draco on the bed, his brilliant green eyes bright and earnest. “What we’ve been doing has been great. Really. It’s been _great._ Do you think I’d still be inviting you round if I didn’t like it when you sucked my cock? If I didn’t like sucking yours?” Draco could feel his ears turning pink. “I fucking love what we’ve been doing. You don’t need to prove anything to me.”

“That’s not it,” Draco said, frustrated. “I… I _want _to be able to… to do more. Not for you—for me. I’m tired of being held back because—because of some stupid thing that happened six years ago! I can’t—” He clapped a hand over his mouth, sucking in a sharp breath. “Oh, fuck,” he breathed, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. No, no, I didn’t mean to—to talk about—”

“Malfoy.” Draco couldn’t look at him—couldn’t bear the thought of seeing those same green eyes from his nightmares. Luckily, Potter seemed content just to put an arm around him. “You can talk about it.”

Draco could feel himself trembling—with anger or despair, he wasn’t sure. He wanted to push Potter away—to tell him to fuck off—but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the comfort of his hold. “Can we please just… call it a night?” he said, sighing. “Please. Don’t make me talk about this, Potter. I can’t. I really can’t—”

“It’s okay,” Potter murmured, rubbing his arm. “You don’t have to.” He cleared his throat, seeming hesitant to move away. “Do you want to… to maybe stay over?” Draco nodded reluctantly. Somehow, the idea of leaving was worse than staying. “And maybe this time you can stay until the morning,” Potter added quietly.

Draco looked at him sharply and slipped out of his hold. “Don’t push your luck, Potter.”

Potter smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

After going to bed, Draco waited for Potter to fall asleep first. When he felt Potter’s breaths deepen, he turned around and pressed his face into Potter’s chest.

When Draco jerked awake, the first thing he saw were Potter’s eyes, the green swallowed by the darkness of the room. Draco held his gaze for a few seconds, breathing heavily, before he tried to pull away. But Potter’s arms were locked around him. “Draco,” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course,” Draco said, his voice too strained. Potter frowned and he shook his head. “It’s nothing. Just a stupid nightmare. Go back to sleep, I’m fine.”

“You have them every night.” Potter’s voice was soft, and not at all accusatory, but Draco felt as if he’d been caught out. “I don’t think you’re fine.”

This time, when Draco pushed his arm off, Potter let him. He sat up and let his feet slide off the bed. “I am,” he croaked faintly. “I am fine.” He pressed his face into his palms, pushing his hair back. When Potter put a hand on his shoulder, he flinched.

“You can talk to me.”

“I told you I don’t want to talk about it,” Draco snapped, his jaw trembling.

“So it is about the Battle of Hogwarts?”

Draco sucked in a sharp breath and squeezed his eyes shut against tears. “Why did it have to be _you_?” he snapped. He didn’t resist when Potter put an arm around his shoulders, but his insides shrivelled. “Why you? Why did you have to be the one who—who saw—”

“I’m sorry,” Potter said, and there was a quaver to his voice. “I’m sorry that—that it happened. I wish that I could have—” He broke off, inhaling slowly. “Have you ever told anyone else?”

Draco’s own laughter made him cringe. “Who? Who would I tell? There’s no one. No one cares.”

“I think you’d be surprised.”

Draco clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, and dug his fingers into his arms. “No. No I just—I can’t.”

“I know you don’t want to talk to me,” Potter said, rubbing gentle circles on Draco’s shoulder. “But there must be someone. Anyone. You shouldn’t be doing this alone.”

“I don’t want to _do _this at all. I just… I want to forget.”

“Draco…”

“Don’t call me that.”

Potter sighed. “Malfoy. It’s been six years and you can’t even sleep. I don’t think you should be bottling it in. You know, the Ministry does provide services for people who—”

“No,” Draco snapped, looking at Potter with wide eyes. “No. I’m not doing that.”

Potter grimaced, but nodded. “Right.” He chewed his lip, staring at the moth-eaten carpet. A pale sliver of moonlight filtered in through the window and glanced off his face. He looked younger without his glasses, almost softer. “I think you’ll be doing yourself a big favour if you stop trying to bury this,” he said quietly, fidgeting with a loose thread on the duvet. “You know you can talk to me if you want to, but—anyone. Just talk to anyone. I think it’ll help.”

Draco huffed and drew his legs up, resting his chin on his knees. “Last I checked, you weren’t a Healer, Potter.”

“Yeah well, call it personal experience. There was never anything I healed better from when I didn’t have my friends.” Draco pursed his lips, but he knew he couldn’t argue. “Do you want to go back to bed?” Potter asked.

“I don’t think I will,” Draco said. Even if he could get back to sleep, he doubted he’d be able to stay asleep. “But… I’ll stay.” Yawning heavily, Potter climbed back under the covers. Draco slipped in beside him, but didn’t move into his arms. He lay on his back and stared at the cobwebs in the chandelier which hung from the ceiling. “I’ll think about it,” he murmured into the silence.

“Hmm?” Potter’s voice was muffled and dopey.

“I said I’ll think about what you said. If it gets you to shut up.”

Potter yawned again and tucked his arms around Draco’s chest, drawing him flush against his body. “‘Night, Draco.”

Draco sighed, but didn’t bother correcting him.


End file.
